


The Chosen and the Beloved

by GuiltyAdonis



Category: BioShock, BioShock Infinite
Genre: AU, CONTENT WARNING: (consensual) incest, CONTENT WARNING: discussions of/references to suicide, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 13:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 85,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuiltyAdonis/pseuds/GuiltyAdonis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Booker DeWitt comes to the city of Columbia in an attempt to clear his name, only to find that his past is inextricably tied to that of the city, and that fate has a way of sneaking up at the most inopportune moments.<br/>Alternately, another novelization-slash-AU rewrite, in which unanswered questions are addressed, underused characters are given their due, and the Lutece twins just can't stop themselves from snarking at everything Booker says.</p>
<p>(Rated for gore, language, unwitting incest, and quantum physics.<br/>You have been warned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From Sodom Shall I Lead Thee

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everybody! First off, I apologize for what is going to be a massive textwall here. You don’t have to read this, but I’d recommend you do, since, well, it’ll aid your understanding of my intentions at the very least, and at best maybe make you want to read the story a little more!  
> Now then. It’s important to note the circumstances under which I first played this game. I had been seeing promotional materials, screenshots, and gameplay trailers on tumblr for weeks, and as soon as the main characters became known to me, I realized I shipped them with the burning of a thousand suns. I didn't know their names, or anything about them— just that Victorian Girl and Hardboiled Detective Guy were _really fucking cute together_.  
>  I made this known, until someone who had finished the game already came into my askbox and requested that I not post so much shipping stuff, because he was her father and it was making them uncomfortable.  
> This was the only spoiler regarding the end that I received. I did not know the circumstances by which this came to light in-game; I had no idea about the whole Double Quantum Reacharound with Comstock and Anna and blah blah blah. So, with this in mind, I played the game.  
> This story is the novelization of what I thought was Bioshock Infinite. For the most part, especially in the beginning, it will read like a direct transcription of the game. A lot of things will remain exactly the same.  
> Many things will be glaringly different. If you’re willing to stick around until then, I’d like to think this will be a satisfying fix-it for what could have been a really brilliant story and turned into a massive disappointment.  
>    
> With that said, I hope you’ll decide to hang around, and I really hope you’ll enjoy the story!  
> And, last but not least, I’d be nothing without my enthusiastic and extraordinarily talented beta [**proserpinasacra**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/proserpinasacra/) — go heap adoration upon her (or better yet, pester her to upload more of her writing, because I don’t seem to be convincing enough).

_“In every man sleeps a prophet,_    
 _and when he wakes,_    
 _there is a little more evil in the world.”_    
—Emil Cioran

 **CHAPTER ONE:**  From Sodom Shall I Lead Thee. 

JUNE 29, 1912

Booker had known he should never have taken this job from the moment he’d first seen the portrait.

Of course, complications had been likely right from the start, and he’d been well aware that things would almost certainly go south from the moment Samuels knocked on his door. He’d gotten in deep with some less-than-savory people— not for the first time, and doubtless not for the last— and it had been Samuels that had pulled his ass out of the fire. Booker had never held any misconceptions that the man was doing this out of the goodness of his heart; Samuels was a scumbag through and through, but he had influence where it counted.

Influence, and ulterior motives.

So when Samuels rapped sharply on his door one stormy day at the end of June, Booker was immediately suspicious.

“DeWitt? You in there?”

“Who wants to know?”

As usual, Samuels took this as an invitation and sidled inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He perched himself at the end of Booker’s desk and inspected his fingernails studiously.

“It’s come to my immediate recollection,” he said, in his smarmiest Missouri drawl, “that you owe me a favor.”

Booker grunted noncommittally. Samuels’s eyes flicked in his direction, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. After several uncomfortable moments in which the two men merely stared at each other with varying degrees of contempt, Booker threw up his hands, slumped back in his chair, and groaned in defeat.

“What do you want, Samuels?”

“Money’s always nice.”

Booker pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the headache that was already forming. “And barring that?”

“There’s a job I’ve had you in my mind for, DeWitt,” Samuels said. “Nice and simple. Hell, you might even enjoy it.”

That never boded well, but what the other investigator had in mind was even more repellent than usual. “A little girl? Really, George?”

“She’s not all that little,” Samuels protested. “Word has it she’s lately passed seventeen.”

“Uh- _huh._ ” What Samuels did with his spare time was his own business, but Booker couldn’t help grimacing in distaste. 

“C’mon, Book, it’s not like that,” said Samuels, practically whining outright. “She’s special, this one. She—”

“—Has these eyes?”

“She could be—”

“Maybe she’s got a voice like a songbird.”

Samuels was glaring at him fit to boil a kettle. Booker resisted the rising urge to snicker.

The other man plowed on determinedly. “My associates think she could—”

But Booker was having far too much fun to let this drop. “I know!” he interrupted with obnoxious cheer. “It’s her bosom, isn’t it?”

“God damn it, DeWitt, would you shut up? There’s an eminent likelihood we’ll be wanting her on our side. Got some sort of talent, but nobody’s sayin’ what it is. Don’t want to talk about it, sounds like.”

Booker was made no less incredulous by this cryptic statement, but he was intrigued. He propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers, weighing his options carefully. Finally he said, “I’m listening.”

“Good God, I think I’m going to faint. This must be the first time in your life.”

“Fuck you.”

“Already got a girl for that, Book, unlike certain parties in this room whom I’ll have the courtesy not to mention. Hey! This girl, maybe she’ll _like_ you, huh?”

Booker gave him a long, cold stare. “You got a point to make, Samuels, or do I have to remove you from my office before someone important comes calling?”

Samuels _tsk_ ed. “Touchy.”

“I will hurt you.”

This was hardly a bluff and Samuels knew it; he huffed a sigh and then paused as if searching for the right words. Booker watched him with dispassionate interest.

Finally, Samuels spoke. “This girl you’ll be liberating. As I said, there’s something strange about her. Got her locked up in some sort of tower, and as word has it, she ain’t never stood under the sky in all her life. Nobody gets locked up like that unless people have a powerful fear of ‘em, or an even more powerful want. We’ll benefit greatly for having that girl on our side, DeWitt. You bring her back here so’s we can speak with her, your life’s yours again.”

Booker pondered this for a moment. “…And ‘we’ would mean who, exactly?”

Samuels clasped his hands over his chest in a display of utter offence at Booker’s distrust. “Why, New York division as a whole, of course!”

“Samuels, I swear…”

He coughed, glanced away, fidgeted on the edge of the desk. “If pressed, I would not deny the potentiality of, ah, downright ludicrous compensation for her recovery.”

“Of course,” Booker said, scowling and slouching forward to rest his head against his hands.

Samuels’s gaze turned steely. “Not that it ought to matter to you,” he said. “Your life’s in the balance, my friend. I went to a great deal of effort to save you from that jackal Delaney, and it’s high time you took steps to repay that little favor.”

“I thought you and Delaney were getting along well these days.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Samuels said coldly, quietly, and Booker was quite jarringly reminded of just why he so distrusted the man. “We _are_ getting along well. Very well, as a matter of fact. And it would be so very easy to let slip to him the fact that his belief in your current status of ‘drowned’ is sorely mistaken.”

Booker’s scowl deepened. “I take your point.”

“Then you’ll go?”

“Do I have to like it?”

“‘Course not.”

“…Yeah. Yeah, fine, I’ll go, you happy?”

All traces of malice vanished from Samuels’s demeanor in an instant. He clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and beamed at Booker amiably.

“Wonderful! There’ll be a ship waiting for you at Providence Wharf above the Battery at seven-thirty tomorrow evening. Your contact’s name is Lutece.”

“Do I get any more information than that?”

Samuels rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah. Don’t get ‘em talking.”

He hopped down off Booker’s desk and headed for the door. Right before he pulled it shut behind him, he stuck his head back into the office and added cheerfully, “Oh, and whatever you do… don’t look down!” 


	2. Woe Betide the Annan Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @NoahIsHuman-- ah, thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it so far! And, as you can see, I'm hoping to keep updates pretty regular, at about twice a week or so. The problem is that, even though this work is ~13k words (almost 50 pages in Microsoft Word!), it's only three chapters long, since a lot happens before Booker gets to Monument Island, but that's where the AU really takes hold so I want to get there in as few chapters as possible. So even though I have a lot written, I don't really have a buffer in terms of number of chapters yet! Fortunately, the chapter I'm currently working on should be pretty short, since it's just from the raffle to when Booker meets Elizabeth for the first time.
> 
> Anyways, I'm glad you're enjoying, and I hope you stick around! :D
> 
> (And, as with all fanfic authors, I thrive on feedback-- even if there's something you dislike or want to see changed! Let me know what you think, guys, I'm all ears!)

_“Metaphysics is a dark ocean_  
 _without shores or lighthouse, strewn  
_ _with many a philosophic wreck.”_

—Immanuel Kant 

 **CHAPTER TWO:** Woe Betide the Annan Water.

 

JULY 5, 1912

“Are you going to just sit there?”

“As compared to what? Standing?”

“Not standing. _Rowing_.”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“So you expect me to shoulder the burden?”

“No, but I do expect you do to all the rowing.”

“And why’s that?”

“Coming here was your idea.”

“ _My_ idea?”

“I’ve made it very clear that I don’t believe in the exercise.”

“What, the rowing?”

“No; I imagine that’s wonderful exercise.”

“Well, then what?”

It took a monumental effort of will for Booker to resist the mounting urge to hurl himself overboard— if not for the quiet, at least for the fact that leaping into the ocean would quite probably make him somewhat drier. Instead, he settled for rifling through the contents of the box that the sister Lutece had handed him for what felt like the fifteenth time1. There were various odds and ends: photographs and postcards from New York and the city of Columbia, a card printed with New York’s coordinates, and a tarnished silver badge; there was a volcanic repeating pistol, with a small carton of .38-caliber cartridges; a blurry, underexposed photograph of the girl, Elizabeth, the back scrawled with Samuels’s insistent reminder to ‘bring to New York unharmed!’, as if he’d forget why he  was out in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a thunderstorm in the middle of yet anotherargument between the siblings Lutece; a scrap of stock-card inscribed with three pictograms, the meanings of which continued to elude him; and a key in the semblance of a thaumatrope, with a bird on one side and a cage on the other. Booker twirled it idly between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, watching the bird blur into the cage and back out again; then he dropped it back into the box and made yet another attempt to get the siblings Lutece’s attention.

This was easier said than done. Samuels had been right when he’d advised Booker not to get them talking: they hadn’tshut up since their little skiff had departed from the steamer _Cornucopia_ , several hours previously.

“Perhaps you should ask him. I imagine he has a greater interest in getting there than I do.”

“I imagine he does, but there’s no point in asking.”

“And why not?”

“Because he doesn’t row.”

“Excuse me,” Booker interjected irritably, “how much longer?”

It would have been easier to rob a bank4. “He doesn’t _row_?”

“No, he _doesn’t_ row.”

“Ah! I see what you mean. We’ve arrived.”

The miserable little dinghy came bobbing erratically to a halt. Booker peered up through the beating rain to see an ancient, crumbling lighthouse, shrouded by a thick halo of fog, its light sweeping forlornly around over the empty black sea.

_…The Hell is a lighthouse doing way out in the middle of the Atlantic?_

No answer to Booker’s internal dialogue was forthcoming, however. When it became apparent, after several moments of awkward silence, that he was not about to move, the brother Lutece prodded his knee and said, “Go on, then.”

Booker looked down and found that their boat had come to rest beside a wharf as ancient and dilapidated-looking as the lighthouse to which it led. Between the rain, the fog, and the seething, choppy ocean, it was almost invisible, even when he was staring straight at it. Booker didn’t really trust the structure, but he was damned if he was going to stay in the boat with the twins a moment longer.

He stretched a hand up to the nearest rung and grimaced when his fingertips met the slimy, rotten wood. The ladder seemed frail at an optimistic best, but it held his weight, and Booker climbed gingerly up onto the creaking jetty. It was, unsurprisingly, entirely deserted.

Turning around, however, revealed the eccentric5 duo already piloting the rowboat away. They were still arguing, though Booker blessedly could not discern the subject over the combined din of the roaring sea and the steadily-lashing rain.

It took him a long moment to realize that there was even a problem; then he shouted, rather more desperately than he really would have liked, “ _Hey_ —! Is someone going to meet me here?”

“I should certainly hope so,” the brother Lutece shouted back.

“It does seem like a dreadful place to be stranded,” the sister added cheerily, and Booker groaned and slapped his forehead in utter frustration, making a mental note to add ‘punching Samuels’ to his list of tasks to complete if he ever made it back to New York.

But he couldn’t just stand here moping about in the pouring rain. Maybe there would be someone inside the lighthouse. At the very least, he’d be out of the storm, so Booker set off down the jetty in the direction of the tower.

The boards were uneven and slanting, warped and slick from who knew how many years of exposure to the sea and sky; and every dozen seconds or so, a volley of waves would wash over them and around Booker’s ankles, forcing him to tread carefully lest he be dragged away into the rushing dark.

He made his meticulous way towards the lighthouse, only to be blocked just before its base by a part of the wharf that had collapsed entirely. To continue on from there, he was going to have to scramble up a jagged tumble of boulders, slick with seaweed and sharp with barnacles. Booker heaved a weary sigh. Why was nothing ever easy?

Several minor cuts and a whole lot of swearing later, he made it to the relative safety of a low-walled walkway that curled halfway around the lighthouse to a large wooden door, upon which was pinned a note. The paper was splotchy and stained by the rain, and the dark red ink6 had run, but the writing was still legibly addressed to him, and warned quite clearly that this was his last chance. It was not in a hand that he recognized, either as Samuels’s haphazard scrawl or the Lutece twins’ identical impeccable copperplate. Delaney, then? But he and his gang still believed Booker to be dead, didn’t they? That had been the deal: bring the girl to Samuels and he wouldn’t have a good portion of the New York underground trying to kill him.

…Again.

Thoroughly unnerved, Booker knocked heavily upon the lighthouse door; then, not sure whether or not to take the lack of response as a good sign, he slipped cautiously inside. The ground floor of the lighthouse was as deserted as the wharf, but tinny music was drifting down from somewhere up above him, jazzy and faint. After a brief inspection of his surroundings, which revealed nothing except the mildly irritating fact that his host appeared to be deeply religious, Booker headed up the stairs.

And stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh, _shit_.”

Someone had been here to meet him, but that someone appeared to have been stabbed multiple times, and then shot for good measure. Another note, pinned to the bloodstained burlap sack that had been pulled over the unfortunate soul’s head, warned Booker yet again of what he was supposed to do (bring Samuels the girl), and how many chances he had left to do it (none).

He ought to have been worried, or angry, or pitying, but in actuality all he felt was severe aggravation. How much of a simpleton did Samuels think he was? He raised his eyes to the ceiling and said aloud, “ _Alright,_ already! I get the point!”

There was no answer; the corpse appeared to have been the tower’s only resident.

Idly hoping, for said cadaver’s sake, that death was as rapturous as its former occupant had seemed to believe, Booker poked around the chamber a bit more thoroughly before heading up another set of stairs in the hopes of finding some indication of what he was supposed to do next. It seemed unlikely that the entire city of Columbia was hidden away in the lighthouse, and Lutece had been maddeningly uninformative as to the purpose of their diversion here.

His search, fortunately, was not entirely fruitless: there was a map stuck with pins mounted upon the far wall, and what looked like a train schedule tacked next to it. Each row of the schedule appeared to correspond to a pin on the map; one such pin off the coast of Maine marked the lighthouse’s position, at least according to Booker’s best estimation. He doubted there would be a train coming here any time soon, but at least he might be able to get a boat back to the States if he couldn’t figure out what he was supposed to be doing here.

There was a phone on the cluttered desk below the map, as if placed there for the express purpose of answering this question8, but it was dead. He hadn’t really expected anything different, so he dropped the receiver back onto its cradle and continued upwards, emerging onto the widow’s walk that encircled the very top of the lighthouse. The rain had lessened to a fine, steady drizzle that, up here where the wind blew stiff and sharp, stung at Booker’s skin like needles. Far, far in the distance, the lights of the shore shone faintly against the horizon. Every few seconds, the beacon came arching past on its tireless round, warning passing ships away from… what, exactly? There were no shipping lanes this far from shore; even the _Cornucopia_ , the ship that had come the closest to the lighthouse on its route to Newfoundland, had only passed within more than an hour’s rowing of the place. And any ship that was coming here specifically would know what to look for, so what was the point?

Nevertheless, the tower’s lantern shone so bright that even shielding his eyes did little to keep Booker from being blinded. He fumbled his way around the widow’s walk, feeling faintly foolish as he did so. There wasn’t going to be anything up here. There wasn’t going to be anything anywhere in this goddamn lighthouse, it wasn’t even supposed to be out here, and what was he even _doing_ up in this—

Booker stopped abruptly. There was a large, heavy door leading into the lantern room: a door far larger and more ornate than the sort that had any business in the wall of a wayward lighthouse. What appeared to be an elaborate lock, strung with three bells, was affixed across the front of the door, barring the way; above each of the bells was an engraved pictogram, and after a moment in which he just stared stupidly at the strange door with its strange lock, Booker realized he recognized them.

Hastily, he rummaged through his satchel until he found the Luteces’ cedarwood box, and managed to fish out the scrap of stock-card. The symbols did indeed match, he saw, which meant the bells must serve as some sort of combination lock. Why they couldn’t just use a good sturdy padlock like everyone else, Booker didn’t know; but it wasn’t his business, and anyways the sooner he got back out of the rain, the better. He dropped the card back into his bag and prodded at the bells experimentally. They produced a series of pretty, mournful chimes. Booker was now almost certain that the people who’d built this place had endeavored to make it seem as melancholy and poetical as possible. Great. The sooner he was done with this job, the happier he’d be.

The last bell gave its chime, a high note that held for a long moment without fading.

Quite a long moment, actually, longer than it ought to be, and growing louder. That was odd. Booker narrowed his eyes and peered more closely at the mechanism, which was now vibrating frenetically.

_What in the world—?_

Very suddenly there came a noise, much like a foghorn, except that it was about ten times as loud and seemed to issue from directly behind him. Booker jumped and looked around in alarm, but there was no indication as to its source. A moment later, the sound came again, much more faintly, as if muted by great distance. Then again, more closely, and then the sound of the rain was all but blocked out entirely by a great cacophony of low fluting horns.

Booker gave up. He was either dreaming, dead, or the victim of a ridiculously elaborate prank, but either way, he thought, he just wasn’t going to question it anymore.

The lock split and folded upwards out of the way, and the door clunked and whirred and swung open to reveal…

A chair. A shiny leather-and-steel barber’s chair, set into a dais about a foot above the lantern-room door, as innocent-looking as if its presence here wasn’t absurd to the extreme.

“Oh, for the love of—” Muttering obscenities in Samuels’s direction, Booker circled the chair, vaguely expecting it to explode as soon as he touched it. Wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’d seen this evening by far, but… traps, especially overcomplicated ones, weren’t Samuels’s style. Bullets and bowie knives and the bottom of the Hudson, straightforward and efficient, were, so this left dreaming, death, or reality as available options. Booker’s dreams were never this detailed, and if this was Hell9, the Church was going to have a whole lot of explaining to do; so, now feeling the inexplicable and slightly maddening urge to laugh, he decided rather helplessly on reality.

This having been settled, there wasn’t really anything left but to go sit in the fancy chair. He wasn’t eager to stay here making conversation with the corpse on the passing chance that a ship would stop by, and he wasn’t about to try swimming to shore any time soon, either. This much fanfare over something as incongruous and yet as mundane as a red barbershop chair had to mean something, so, incautiously pushing his doubts to the back of his mind, Booker climbed up and settled himself into the chair.

And then had the gall to act alarmed when restraints immediately affixed themselves around his wrists and ankles. He jerked against them in surprise, and when they failed to release, fought all the more desperately to break free.

It was to no avail, of course. The process, whatever the hell that actually was, had already begun. Heavy plates were folding upwards out of the floor and damn it, why hadn’t he noticed their outlines when he’d walked in? A gentle female voice was telling him to stay calm and prepare for ascension, which predictably had exactly the opposite of the intended effect. Booker struggled valiantly to break free, but against heavy iron shackles even he was outmatched.

Oblivious to its occupant’s efforts, the chair raised up off its dais with a loud pneumatic whirr. The cone of metal panels closed around it, trapping Booker in a claustrophobic pod broken only by a small, circular porthole. He caught a flash of fire below him, and then the floor of the capsule sealed itself off beneath his feet. Before he could register anything other than immense foreboding with a generous helping of _Oh, you’ve gotta be_ kidding _me_ , the entire thing began to vibrate, and a cacophonous roar started up beneath his feet. There was a massive jolt— Booker was reminded, in the vague far-off way that one is when they feel sure that they are about to die, of his introduction to electrical sabotage— and then, suddenly, he was flying.

 _All right,_ now _I’m dead_ , he thought, still in that detached, faintly amused way; then he realized that no, he was still in the little pod, and he was, in fact, flying. He gave one more heave against the shackles that pinned his wrists and ankles, just in case, but they still held him fast. There was nothing he could do but stare out the porthole in utter bewilderment and try to remain calm, as lighthouse, jetty, ocean, and world fell away below him. Rain smeared the glass, momentarily opaquing everything beyond, and then the absurd flying machine broke through the clouds with a cheerful “ _Hallelujah!_ ”, and he stopped trying to make sense of the night’s events entirely.

There was a city in the sky.

Booker’s little flying machine drifted gently above thick, puffy storm clouds, their crests burnished purple-gold in the pale predawn light. And in, and above, and amongst these clouds, there were buildings.

They rested atop clusters of massive, colorful balloons, crawling upwards against each other in a rising tangle of brick and cobblestone; they flanked narrow, dim alleyways and wide, verdant boulevards shaded by broad-leafed elms; they formed floating islands the size of a city block, and blocks the size of cities. Huge propellers churned the clouds into long, fanciful curls, which wound themselves gracefully around towers that glittered in the rising sun. Dirigibles paneled in auburn wood and filigreed brass drifted to and fro, their silhouettes like so many fish flitting about in this exquisite archipelago.

And in the middle of it all, taking up a good third of Booker’s field of vision, there was an angel.

It was easily twice the size of New York’s bronze Lady Liberty, and older by far. Whereas Liberty, though dimmed by her thirty-year vigil over New York Harbor, still shone a muted golden when the sun was right, this angel’s wings had been tarnished a dark, mottled blue-green from weather and wear. She looked out over her soaring kingdom with an expression of serene, profound, and utter sorrow, and her outspread hands seemed as much a supplication as a blessing.

Booker realized his mouth was open. He shut it, embarrassed at having been caught gawking13. When Samuels had said ‘Columbia’, this was not what he had imagined at all. He’d known _about_ the city, sure, in the way one knows about the existence of slime molds but never really devotes much thought to the matter of their existence. He’d regarded the entire affair with the same vague disgust one might have for slime molds10 as well; the war had been over for two decades when news went out of the city’s secession, and shunning an entire country when it had failed to uphold their aggressively-misguided beliefs just seemed childish.

Well, whatever Booker had been expecting, it wasn’t this entire, impossible city spread out below him in all its airborne glory. He’d seen zeppelins before, of course— it was hard not to, in a city that had just finished constructing the world’s largest aerodrome— but a whole little world supported by nothing but hydrogen balloons strained credulity at the very least. Yet here it was, the errant city-state, shame of the South, drifting across the summer dawn in all its shining gold-edged glory.

By that point, Booker’s pod had descended to the level of the lower tiers of buildings, and then abruptly there was a mechanical-sounding _clunk_ and the vessel came to a halt,  landing on a railed walkway that overlooked what appeared to be some sort of federal or governmental complex, all white marble walls, domed roofs, and ivy-wrapped pillars. Booker sighed in relief: he’d never been overly fond of small spaces, and he had a great deal of work to do.

But before he could begin figuring out a way to extricate himself from the chair, there was another loud mechanical grinding noise, and the little pod began to descend. Sunlight filtered down through slits in the wall of the shaft, broken occasionally by a narrow catwalk or the silhouette of huge, churning gears. There was writing engraved into the walls of the shaft, carved so that it caught the slanting beams of light and threw them unavoidably back into the eyes of whichever unfortunate person happened to be trapped in the capsule at the time. Booker did his sullen best to ignore the words, which spelled out some bullshit about someone called ‘the Prophet’ and the glory of this ‘new Eden’.

And then at last the pod came to rest, setting down on a dais much like the one from which it had originally ascended. Beyond the porthole, Booker could see tiered candelabras, and a flash of brilliant stained glass. Several moments later, the restraints at his arms and ankles mercifully released, the capsule door whirred outward and folded down, and Booker was free.

The first thing he thought upon his release was, _Oh, great. More water._ He’d only just started to feel dry again, and there was a rather large puddle on the capsule’s floor beneath his feet. But he wasn’t about to stay sitting in this chair until someone came to collect him or, worse, until it decided to take off again, so he got stiffly to his feet and assessed his surroundings more thoroughly.

Water poured steadily from two great spouts at opposite ends of the chamber in which he stood, filling the lowered floor below the dais to about knee-height before rushing off, down a set of curving stairs. Directly across from him was another raised platform beneath the huge stained-glass window he’d glimpsed on his descent.

‘Window’ felt an insufficient word to describe the piece; it took up the entire wall from floor to ceiling and depicted an elderly bearded man, gesturing to a group of fawning supplicants towards a gold-haloed city in the sky. Despite Booker’s general distaste in regards to the subject matter, he had to admit it was an impressive work of art. He sloshed across the room towards it, grumbling half-hearted curses as icy water once again soaked through the legs of his pants and into his boots. It was quite cold in the stone chamber, despite the multitude of candles that grew from every available surface like mushrooms, and he found himself hugging his arms to his chest. He wasn’t about to shiver in front of this mural— he didn’t want to give it the satisfaction.

 _Booker, you’re going insane_ , the little voice he’d begun attributing to his subconscious14 nagged, but he ignored it. He studied the colorful glass intently for a moment more, and then looked down, intending to move on. A glint of light, as of the reflection from something metallic, caught his eye. He bent and fumbled around under the rack of candles, coming up with a few large silver coins: a wayward offering, perhaps, or loose change dropped by an inattentive worshiper. Either way, Booker thought wryly, as he turned the coins over in his palm, he’d more need of them than the mural did. He tucked the money into his pocket and moved on in the direction of the stairs.

They led down and around a slight corner to another circular chamber much the same as the first. This room’s space, though, was filled almost completely by a statue of the man from the stained-glass mural. That had to be their so-called Prophet, then. Comstock, hadn’t his name been?

Above the statue was a carved marble banner that read, in crisp capital letters, _The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne and drown in flame the mountains of Man._

“Seed of the prophet, huh?” Booker regarded the carving with a small, cynical smile. Well, whatever these people wanted to think was holy, he supposed. Shaking his head, he continued down the last few steps, only to find that the water here was a good deal deeper, brushing at the hem of his overshirt and chilling him to the bone. Eager to be out in the sun, he hurriedly rounded the base of the statue and nearly collided with a man in a long white cassock, who stood at the top of another flight of downward-spiraling stairs.

“‘Scuse me,” Booker said, trying not to sound quite as harried as he felt, “but where am I?”

The man in white gave him a broad and earnest grin. “Heaven, friend,” he said. “Or as close as we’ll see ‘til Judgment Day.”

Booker found himself pressing his mouth into a thin line. Well, so much for learning anything useful. Irritated, he took his leave of the man and entered the adjacent chamber.

And stopped dead in his tracks. There was another stained-glass wall here, this one casting every shadow and angle in lavender and indigo and silver, a brilliant contrast to its precursor’s orange, scarlet, and gold. The figure it depicted was a solitary woman, and even in such an unforgiving medium as glass, Booker could tell that every detail had been rendered with exquisite care. He stared up at her upswept dark hair, her midnight-blue walking gown, the haughty set of her narrow, icy eyes. Her accompanying marble banner proclaimed, _And in my womb shall grow the seed of the Prophet._

Booker had no perception of how long he stood there in the cold, rippling water of the temple, staring at the woman’s face. He wanted to shout at her, to kick something, or laugh, or fall to his knees, or make a witty remark. In the end, though, the first coherent thought that came to him was a disgusted, _He knew—_ _Samuels_ knew! _That goddamn bastard knew she was here,_ that’s _what this is about—!_

Finally an odd, tight sort of resignation settled in, and he managed to gather his wits about him enough to make a further inspection of the room in which he stood. The lavender light that filtered through the window fell over rows of wooden pews, the water between scattered with pink lilies. There was an altar spanning the raised floor below the window, and Booker sloshed towards it with that same detached feeling that had been settling in ever since the strange firework-driven flying machine had lifted off from the lighthouse— God, had it only been an hour or two ago? It already felt like he’d spent days in the labyrinthine temple. Before the table, more flowers were strewn: lilacs and roses and lilies, lilies, lilies.

 _The flower of mourning…_ Booker thought, idly picking one up from the damp cobblestones and inspecting it. It was fresh, perhaps only just cut this morning, and gave off a cloying, dusky scent. Scowling suddenly, he cast the flower aside, dragging his fingers over the heavy velveteen drape that had been laid across the altar. At the end of the table, surrounded by flowers, candles, and coins, was a device. Booker picked it up and studied it, curiosity momentarily overcoming the stew of bitterness and confusion. He’d never seen the object’s like before: a heavy wedge of dark wood, half-concealing a small black disc not unlike a phonograph. A series of dials and buttons formed a half-circle around the base of the disc, each of them labeled in fine ink print. At one edge of the wooden wedge was a small brass trumpet, again much like that of a gramophone; at the other was a faded, water-damaged tintype of the woman, set under a circle of glass. The device was odd enough to warrant further study, but Booker wasn’t planning on sticking around, and so, glancing about to make sure he wasn’t being observed, he stuffed it surreptitiously into his bag.

Behind the array of offerings, there was a painting of the woman, set into a heavy gold frame, and Booker paused again to trace her face with his fingertips. It was clear that this portrait had been the reference, if not the actual inspiration, for the window: she bore the same blue walking gown and the same cool, haughty expression. Pearls dotted her ears and throat, their fastens picked out in bright gold paint. Booker sighed and made to move on, but something else caught his eye. He leaned down to inspect the frame more closely, and found that there was a plaque set into its bottom edge, which he had not noticed, transfixed as he’d been by the lady’s face.

_In Beloved Memory of Our Lady A. Comstock_  
 _(May the Prophet bless her and keep her.)  
_ _1869 – 1896_

So she was dead after all. Perhaps it was for the better, Booker thought; at least then there wouldn’t be the danger of having to face her while he was here in Columbia.

Either way, though, he wasn’t keen on spending any more time in Lady Comstock’s memorial, so he moved on. There was a third alcove off of the central vestibule on the other side of the statue, but all Booker wanted by then was to escape. He caught a glance of that chamber’s glass mosaic as he passed by, though. A multitude of bright, pale colors depicted the Prophet Comstock and his Lady smiling over an infant child, as blue-eyed and dark-haired as its mother. The piece was entitled _The Lamb: the future of our city._

Booker resisted the urge to make a face at the mural as he passed. The priest, or worshiper, or whatever the agonizingly-optimistic man in white was, gave him a curious look. He was no doubt wondering what business Booker had looking so dour in such a holy place, but the latter ignored him. He headed down the stairs, hands stuffed into his pockets, kicking sullenly at the burbling water as he spiraled downwards. At last he reached the bottom and surged into the chest-high pool that filled what appeared to be the final chamber. This room was easily twice as large as all of its predecessors combined. Its vaulted ceilings disappeared into gloom, supported by thick, fluted columns of marble. Between each two of the central walk of columns were poised a pair of stone angels, wings unfurled, outstretched hands holding tall white candles. Their wings were limned in blue by the brilliant light of the sky, which shone through a massive, but mercifully veneration-free, window at the far end.

Between Booker and freedom, however, lay a long expanse of water, dotted with bobbing candles, and, at the end of this, an entire congregation of figures in white cassocks. Beyond them, gesticulating wildly and speaking with passion and volume in equal force, was poised a single figure in black. He cried with great fervor upon the glories of the Prophet, and his victories, and his trials.

Booker grimaced. Wasn’t that just _lovely_. There didn’t appear to be any other way out of the huge hall; he was going to have to interact with at least a few of them if he was going to get out of here. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to speak very much.

Shivering, Booker waded down the length of the vault, sending candles spinning and bobbing in his wake. Water lapped over several of them, snuffing them out, and he felt a small surge of vindictive15 satisfaction. One last candle floated between him and the cluster of white-robed votaries, and he flicked it over resentfully, watching the flame sputter out with a grim little smile. Then he splashed forwards again, up a shallow flight of slick stone steps, and shouldered his way through the solemn crowd.

The priest gazed up at him from one final, shallow pool of water. “Is it someone new?” he said, with the same eagerness and fortitude with which he’d delivered his sermon. “Another traveler from the Sodom below, come to join us in our new Eden?”

Booker sighed. “I just need passage into the city,” he said wearily.

“Ah, but the only way into the city is through the cleansing waters of baptism,” said the priest, extending a calloused hand to him with somber grandeur. “What say you, brother? Are you ready to wash away your sins?”

Booker wasn’t all that fond of the idea of punching out an unarmed priest who obviously didn’t mean any harm, no matter how unpleasant the prospect of being further saturated with the frigid, and probably highly unsanitary, waters of the temple. He sighed again, adjusted the strap of his rucksack against his shoulder, gritted his teeth, and took the priest’s proffered hand.

The priest immediately hauled him down into the lower pool, yanking him off-balance with a loud splash.

“I bless you, brother,” he cried, “in the name of our Prophet, in the name of our Fathers, and in the name of our Lord!”

And with that, he grabbed Booker by the hair and shoved him bodily into the water. Unprepared for this sudden dunking as he was, Booker inhaled quite a lot of it, choked, and struggled valiantly to get his face back into the air again. The priest, perhaps taking the meaning of Booker’s thrashing about, grasped him by the collar of his shirt and heaved him upright again. Booker sputtered and coughed violently, eyes stinging, water streaming from his nose and mouth. Before he could catch his breath, though, the overzealous priest exclaimed, “I don’t know, brothers, but this one doesn’t look clean to me!” and shoved him under again.

Then, suddenly, Booker was let go, only to be taken by a fierce and turbulent current and dragged away. Distantly he noticed himself bobbing to the surface once or twice, and caught flashes of blue sky— brilliant, verdant leaves— marble wrapped in rose vines—

Then the water took hold of him once more.

Moments later, darkness followed.

  
  
  
  


* * *

  1. It was, as a matter of fact, the seventeenth2.
  2. _Eighteenth_. You’re not counting the time that he dropped it and had to put everything back 3.
  3. Ah, you’re right; my mistake. Eighteenth it is, then.
  4. He speaks from experience, I see. An outright paragon of moral fortitude, this one.
  5. The adjective our good Mr. DeWitt’s thoughts might best have been condensed into was a good deal stronger, and has therefore been modified for the sake of our more delicate readers. The man does have _such_ a colorful vocabulary.
  6. At least, he sincerely hoped it was ink7.
  7. It was, of course. Why, what sort of dreadful cliché were you expecting? _Honestly_.
  8. It wasn’t. You didn’t really think we were going to make this that easy, did you?
  9. Booker wasn’t really the religious sort. This being said, he had no illusions that he’d be going to Heaven, if in fact there was an afterlife; and if there wasn’t, he wouldn’t be around to know anything about it. A true master of deduction, our Mr. DeWitt.
  10. This is entirely unfair; slime molds are eminently fascinating life-forms and—11
  11. _Robert_ 12.
  12. Right. Sorry.
  13. The fact that nobody had actually caught him notwithstanding.
  14. Incorrectly, of course. You’d think the man would have noticed it wasn’t his own voice, but no. I _told_ you this was a bad idea. 
  15. _Childish_ is what it was, but Mr. DeWitt objected to that particular adjective rather forcefully for some reason.




	3. Shanty for the American Pastime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I hope you've been enjoying the story so far ~~but it's kind of hard to tell, since very few people are saying anything...~~! @SyntheticRevenge and Ashlockley, thanks a lot! I'm glad you're liking it, especially the footnotes c: It just seemed like the sort of thing they'd do, if presented with the opportunity to serialize their own adventures. (They're currently getting into a pun war in the footnotes of the next chapter. It's Rosalind's fault. I'm so sorry.)
> 
> I'm just popping in to give a preemptive warning: expect a fair delay between this chapter and the next one. Chapter 4 is currently just over twelve pages (almost 9k words, dear god) and not even close to being finished, and I'm trying to keep up a buffer of at least 20 pages, which means that Chapter 4 won't be posted until I'm well into Chapter 5. I'm sorry about the wait, but this chapter and the next are both going to be so ridiculously long that I hope it makes up for it.   
>  Also, as is always the case, I as a fanfiction author live for your feedback. Even if it's something you don't like or want to critique, I'm happy to hear it! TELL ME EVERYTHING YOU THINK COME ON GUYS
> 
> Now that that's out of the way, I hope you enjoy the chapter!   
> 

 

" _There are decades where_  
 _nothing happens; and then there are weeks_  
in which decades happen."  
—Vladimir Lenin

  
**CHAPTER THREE:**  Shanty for the American Pastime.

JULY 6, 1912

"Mr. DeWitt?  _…Mr. DeWitt!_ "

"Uh?" Booker came round to the sound of someone hammering impatiently at his office door. He felt foggy and unfocused, and his head throbbed in time with the ferocious knocking. He blinked around at his office blearily, momentarily bewildered as to how he'd gotten there. He ran a hand down the side of his face, attempted to smooth down his tousled hair, scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. No airships, no impossible cities, no insufferable1 twins greeted him when he looked up again. He must have fallen asleep at his desk.

What a weird dream.

The insistent shouting came again. "Mr. DeWitt! Open this door!"

"Ngh— wha— Samuels? Is that you? I, uh." Booker paused, doing his best to banish his grogginess, and frowned at this decidedly odd turn of coincidence. Saying 'I had a dream about you' seemed neither prudent, wise, nor particularly masculine, so he decided on, "Did we have an appointment?"

The only answer was a renewed intensity to the knocking. "We had a deal, DeWitt!  _Open the damn door!_ "

"A deal? I don't remember any—" Cutting himself off, Booker rose, disengaging the safety and thumbing back the hammer of his pistol as he did so. He'd seen Samuels kill before, and it was never preceded by uncontrolled anger like this. If Samuels was going to kill him, the first Booker would know about it would be when he was shot in the back of the head. There were plenty of other people in the city with reason to want him dead anyways, people who were much more likely to assault him as soon as he opened the door, so it was best to take precautions.

Warily, Booker crossed the room, gun at the ready. He squinted through the bubbly frosted glass, but there was no silhouette beyond.

 _Curiouser and curiouser_ , he thought dryly. He unlatched the door and opened it as narrowly as he could, leaning against the adjacent wall to peer through the slat. As soon as the latch drew back, though, the door was flung violently open, nearly knocking Booker down.

He immediately scrabbled back into position to face the door, index finger hovering over the trigger of his pistol. In his sights lay not a disgruntled acquaintance, however, but the skyline of New York City; but it was not a New York City that Booker knew. It was too high, too bright, made jagged and unfamiliar by the presence of too many buildings.

And it was burning.

Bombs were falling like shooting stars, and the whole block shuddered violently with each explosion, even at this great distance.

But that distance was lessening; the strikes were approaching far too fast, Booker realized with a sudden shock of terror, raining destruction upon Broadway in rapid succession. They were going to hit the office, he had to get out, had to run, to do  _something_ —!

A sudden roaring overhead, followed by a blinding white light, froze Booker in his tracks before he could even attempt to escape. There was an airship directly above him, fire pouring from its cannons, and he could only stare in horror as its next volley headed straight for his block, straight for him.…

Then white fire blazed across his vision, and a searing, brilliant, distant sort of pain consumed him. Within seconds he knew nothing at all.

* * *

1\. What! How rude! We never insult  _his_  abrasive demeanor, now do we?

* * *

The sound of birds woke Booker for the second time. He blinked his eyes open, only to immediately shut them again with a muffled groan of pain when they were flooded with blinding sunlight.

Slowly, he raised his head and squinted around. He was lying on a flat, sloping moss-covered boulder half-submerged in a pool of warm, still water. Rosebushes surrounded him, their fragrant crimson blooms bobbing gently in the faint, surprisingly cold breeze. Trees above him, aspen and birch and elm, split the light of the morning sun into myriad shifting shadows; and beyond them lay the high, brilliant, endless blue dome of a cloudless summer sky.

Groaning, Booker levered himself up onto his elbows, and then into a sitting position. His chest ached fiercely, and he seemed to be having trouble getting enough air. His head pounded in time with his heartbeat, and his back and shoulders were stiff and sore. He felt as if he'd woken up to a particularly vengeful hangover, rather than from his latest2 brush with drowning. That idiot priest really had to learn the definition of 'baptism' before he started shoving people underwater.

Gingerly, Booker stood and looked around. He was still standing in water, of course, but at least he was outside, and, more importantly, relatively warm. His leather rucksack was still with him, and he shuffled through the contents, taking stock of what had been damaged. Many of his papers were utterly ruined, including his city map, and the device from the woman's memorial was likely destroyed as well; but his gun, though currently thoroughly useless without a good cleaning and some fresh powder, was still intact, as was the box with his badge and the thaumatrope key. Satisfied that he wasn't going to have to step out into a new city entirely unprepared, Booker looked up once more and took a moment to assess his surroundings.

He appeared to have emerged from the temple into the same complex he'd seen as the flying machine had made its final descent. The courtyard was all roses and ivy and worn stone angels, and standing around him were monumental statues of three of the United States' more influential politicians. The way in which they had been arranged, precisely positioned to be crowned by the morning sun and proffering objects of golden brass, was decidedly religious. Booker looked them up and down distastefully, starting to wonder if there was anything the people of this city  _didn't_  worship.

It didn't look like it; there were more white cassocks kneeling in the water below the statues, hands clasped, heads bowed, murmuring prayers to the statues of the Founding Fathers. Emphasis on the religious meaning of 'Fathers', it sounded like; Booker was beginning to think that maybe the list of things the Columbians didn't worship started with 'an actual God'.

Well, he couldn't stay standing here in the water exuding silent disapproval at the monks5 all day, so he sloshed across the little pool to a set of mossy stairs, which, he found to his delight, led up onto dry grass. His boots squished uncomfortably as he pulled himself out of the water, and they were probably going to start growing moss themselves soon, but at least he was finally on dry land again.

At the top of the stairs Booker was met by another monk, who earnestly told him that "The Prophet fills our lungs with water, so they may better love the air"— as if that was somehow supposed to make Booker want to punch him any less.

Getting into a fistfight with a religious official was still fairly low on Booker's agenda, however, especially since he felt rather like a drowned rat6. Besides, he still had a job to do, so he gave the oblivious man a cold glare and staggered past him through the garden. Several marble archways and white cassocks later, he arrived at a heavy double door, embossed in gold and crowned by one final marble banner, which once again announced that _The seed of the Prophet will sit the throne and drown in flame the mountains of Man._ The message held a good deal more foreboding now than it had the first time, if the altarpieces told a true story and the Prophet's Lady really _had_  borne that seed.

 _With a dam like that, I do believe it actually might_ , Booker thought, half-bitter, half-wry, and he was filled by a terrible, slow-burning dread. It took him a moment to realize he was clenching his fists, and he took a deep breath, fighting back the agonizing urge to claw at the back of his hand and forcing himself to relax. It didn't matter if they'd had a kid, he told himself sternly; it was their prisoner he was after, not their progeny.

Swallowing the rising fear that he'd dug himself into even deeper trouble by taking this job, Booker stepped forwards and pressed his palms against the cool doors. The only way out was forward, he thought determinedly, and he was going to have to either face or ignore all of his fears if he was going to get home any time soon.

Booker was a master of ignoring things that he really ought to deal with, so, taking one last steadying breath, he pushed open the doors of the temple garden and stepped out to face the music of the city in the sky.

* * *

2\. ' _Latest_ ,' he says casually! He's got more experience at being drowned than he has at robbing banks3,4.

3.  _[See the 4th note of the previous chapter if you find yourself in need of a reminder. —Ed.]_

4\. To be honest, I can't say I'm even remotely surprised.

5\. Or whatever the Hell they were; Booker was less interested in debating semantics than he was standing around in pools of water for the rest of his life, so he settled for calling them monks and left it at that.

6\. He more than faintly resembled one, too.

* * *

It was a great relief to be out amongst the people again. Booker's fatigue and apprehension all but vanished as soon as he was outside of the complex, to be replaced by a cautious enjoyment. He'd lived in large cities all his life, and had entertained fancies of traveling the world when he was younger. Those had fallen through after... well. He  _had_  traveled, after a fashion, but it didn't quite count as a vacation when so many people were dead for it7.

Nevertheless, making his way through the beautiful, bustling streets of Columbia felt almost like something Booker had elected to do, and he found his mood rapidly improving as he deftly navigated the crowds that milled about what he assumed was the city center.

There was some sort of festival being put on that day: fireworks exploded in gaudy rounds every three-quarters of a minute or so, and brassy music and carnival smells drifted along the cobbled streets. Either the Independence Day celebrations had been particularly exuberant this year, or Columbia had its own set of holidays. Booker guessed the latter; somehow he couldn't see them wanting to praise anything having to do with their 'Sodom below'. Even on a festival day, the attire of choice seemed to be muted colors and modest cloths; he was acutely aware that he stood out like a sore thumb, but the people of Columbia greeted him with general good cheer, if a little caution, and eventually he began to relax and study the celebrations curiously. A parade in celebration of the child of Comstock and his Lady dampened Booker's spirits briefly, but shortly thereafter he found himself happily distracted by an enormous mechanical horse. It was a beauty of a thing: a triumph of machinery, all white enamel and brass gears, and it snorted and stamped and tossed its head to put a living horse to shame. Booker walked all around it, studying it in fascination and bending down to peer at the mechanics between its joints, until the owner of the ice cart to which it was harnessed came and told him off. He stood and patted the machine's withers amiably, getting several odd looks for it, but if the conservative celebrants of Columbia had a problem with him, well, it was  _their_ problem, not his.

Several palmed apples later, Booker had more or less dried out and was actually feeling rather good about the whole affair. Maybe Samuels had actually meant it when he'd said that Booker might enjoy this job.

Of course, our more jaded readers will realize that it is at this moment that the first catch tends to show up, and so it was with some nigh-unbelievably literarily-appropriate timing that the first poster caught Booker's attention. It was as tall as he was, mounted on a wall, and depicted a hooded Grim Reaper figure bearing down upon a wide-eyed, fearful lamb.  _Beware the False Shepherd, for he has come to lead our Lamb astray!_ it read, in ominous capitals.

The Lamb was Comstock's kid, wasn't it? Booker could imagine all sorts of people who'd want to hold the child of a man like that hostage, for all sorts of reasons. He wondered if the poster was being metaphorical, or referring to someone in particular. He hoped it was the former; the latter held the implication of far too many complications for Booker's liking. He did not want to get caught up in any more conflict than he had to.

Shrugging as he turned away from the poster, Booker forced the returning sense of unease to the back of his mind. Enemies of the state weren't his problem at the moment. If he had to deal with some other person coming in and antagonizing the Prophet, he would do so when it actually became an issue. Until then, he would proceed according to the assumption that it was business as usual. He ducked under a turnstile, shouldered through a crowd of tittering young women all bearing enormous and fragrant flowery hats, made note of a sign that pointed him in the direction of a raffle, rounded a corner, and found himself suddenly in the shadow of the angel.

If it had looked big from the air, it was massive when viewed on foot: it cast a shadow over the entire side-street in which Booker had paused, and he had to crane his neck and lean backwards a little just to see up to the top. It really did put Lady Liberty to shame, he thought with an amused frown; New York ought to feel disgraced by itself.

The puerile 'mine's-bigger' contest was going to have to wait, though, since the angel was Booker's intended destination. Monument Island, Lutece had told him it was called, and since that was where the girl Elizabeth was said to be imprisoned, that was where he was going to go. Booker frowned, wishing he still had his map; the city was a maze as it was, and it had taken him a good forty minutes' wandering just to come within sight of it. The angel didn't appear to be connected to any buildings, and Booker's stomach turned at the prospect of having to fly again. Zeppelins were all well and good when they were docking at Empire a thousand feet above him, but he had no desire to be inside one, soon or ever.

However, though there were many signs pointing towards Monument Island throughout the city, all of them led to dead ends. ' _Closed for renovations_ ', one sign said; ' _structure unsound_ ', said another. A poster of the angel in shining gold above one such chained gate read,  _The Tower protects the Lamb from the False Shepherd_ _._ Below that was another, newer poster, upon which were the words ' _Closed by order of the Prophet_ '.

It wasn't that Booker didn't believe in coincidences; it was just that, when Samuels was involved, the coincidences seemed to line up just a little too perfectly.

"'The Tower protects the Lamb from'..." Booker trailed off, grimacing. Either that meant that Monument Island was highly weaponized— in which case, how terrifying did the girl Elizabeth have to  _be_  to wind up imprisoned there?— or that it was the Lamb locked up inside for protection, which meant that not only was Booker going to have to find a way inside and then back out again without bringing the whole city down on his head, but that he was going to have to do so while kidnapping the daughter of said city's beloved leader.

Booker had a sinking feeling it was going to be the latter.

"You couldn't have mentioned this to me earlier, Samuels?" he grumbled to himself as he made his way along a residential block close to the edge of the island.

To his surprise, he got an answer of sorts. "You Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker looked around for the speaker, a little startled. "Uh— yeah?"

"Telegram for you, sir!"

Booker looked down and found himself staring at a grubby child of about ten years of age, wearing a brown corduroy coat patched at the elbows and a round felt cap. The kid waved a slip of yellow card urgently; when Booker took it, he scurried away before he could be questioned further.

Frowning, Booker examined the telegram.

  
_DeWitt STOP_   
_Do not alert Comstock to your presence STOP_   
_Whatever you do, do not pick #77 STOP_   
_Lutece_   


"What the...?"

Booker glared at the card, as if the sheer might of his perplexed stare could somehow force its contents to make sense. When this predictably failed to be an effective tactic, he huffed irritably, dropped the card into his pack, and continued on his way.

The block down which he'd been traveling ended at a sweeping flight of stone stairs, which led upwards to what looked like the fair he'd seen advertised earlier. There were stalls selling sausages and spun sugar and ice cream, and shooting galleries and ring-tosses and souvenir stands, but it was the stage at the very entrance to the fair that caught Booker's attention.

A man dressed in the garb of a street magician stood on a raised, colorfully-painted platform behind two costumed demons, shouting about something called 'vigors'. Booker had seen them advertised around the city and had just assumed they were fancy themed liquors, but this did not turn out to be the case. When one of the demons flicked his hands and tossed his compatriot several feet straight into the air, the gathered crowd  _ooh_ ed appreciatively, but Booker's thoughts ranged more along the lines of, "What the Hell?"

It was only when several of the fairgoers turned to look at him with faintly accusatory glares that he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"Not Hell, friend," the magician said, flourishing with his brass-knobbed cane, "merely science! The brightest minds of Columbia working together to bring the powers of the universe to the tips of your fingers!"

"Yeah, thanks for the sales pitch," Booker grumbled testily, to cover his embarrassment. "How do they work?"

"Why, quantum physics, of course!" cried the salesman, and launched into a prepared speech that Booker didn't understand and had little care to hear.

"Okay, thanks," he said, and turned and left before anyone else could try and sell him something.

This proved a futile endeavor. He found his way to a high brass gate guarded by an automaton which told him sternly that "Monument Island is closed! You'll  _have_  to go!" as if it weren't just a tangle of clockwork and steam that he could happily dismantle given a wrench and a few spare minutes. He was trying to figure out whether this would be the most efficient means of getting past it when a female voice that sounded like it was trying just a little too hard to be sultry called out to him.

"You trying to get to the lottery, handsome?"

Booker turned around, blinking in surprise, and a lovely young woman stepped neatly in front of him before he could react. Her copper hair had been coiled upon her head in a crown of braids, but long strands of it had fallen (or been pulled free) to float artfully around her freckled face. She did not at all look the Columbian stereotype. In her arms, she held a basket of poison-green bottles topped with crimson hearts: another one of those vigor things, it looked like.

"So what does this one do?" Booker asked skeptically.

She laughed at him, sounding altogether too wicked and playful to belong in a city like hers. "Have you ever lost a penny to a vending machine? Have you ever yearned for more control over those who've paid you no mind?"

"I suppose, but in my experience control ain't found at the bottom of a green bottle."

She laughed again, mocking and merry. "Of course it is! It's Possession, silly!"

"And how does that help me get to Monument Island?"

She blinked up at him, swaying gently. Booker wanted to reach out and steady her before she fell over.

"Try it and see," the girl said. "No charge."

Well, maybe it would get rid of her. She was a pretty girl, but she wasn't the one he was being paid to find. At best, the vigor might actually do something, and of this Booker was rather optimistic; it wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd seen that day by far. At worst, it would be wormwood and he'd end up several hours behind schedule, talking to the automaton, but even that wouldn't have been the strangest thing he'd've ever done8.

"Yeah," said Booker, "all right, give it here."

He took a bottle from her basket and uncorked it cautiously. It had a bittersweet smell, though not of liquorice— oleander, perhaps, or primrose— and the bottle itself felt strange, somehow, as if it were vibrating slightly, though the liquid inside was unnaturally still.

Well, he'd drunk more dubious things before9, and the young woman was staring at him expectantly, so Booker raised the bottle to his lips and took a cautious sip.

The entire world shattered.

He stood fixed in place while the entirety of his perception shook violently; he thought that years later he would still be able to say what those tremors tasted like. The gate before him flickered rapidly between open and shut, and the young woman's outlines shimmered and blurred into a mess of pulsing emerald tentacles that made him sick to look at.

"With just a whisper," she said, and her voice crawled and shone and grew like ivy, and her words fluttered from her mouth like rose-petal butterflies, "they're all—  _yours_ —"

And then, just as suddenly as it had dissolved, the world snapped itself back into focus. Booker doubled over, coughing violently. When he straightened up, head spinning, there was blood on his lips and on the tips of his fingers.

" _The Hell was that?_ " he demanded, rounding on the girl, but she didn't even flinch. Still with that vague, heavy-eyed smile, she gestured mutely towards the gate.

It shuddered grainy-gray at the edges of his vision. Booker thought that if he could just  _push_ , just so, the distortion might swing aside...

He stretched out his hand as if to do just that, and to his utter bewilderment, the universe righted itself. The automaton bowed and clattered and waved and called him by somebody else's name, and the gate swung open as if he'd had the key.

A rather strangled, appreciative " _Shit_ " was all Booker could manage for nigh on a minute, much to the girl's giggling amusement; then he rallied himself, gave her a respectful nod, and headed through the gate.

Where he nearly collided with a pair of tall, red-haired figures who were standing directly in his path.

"Heads?"

"—Or tails?"

"God  _damn_  it," Booker said.

"Heads?" the sister Lutece said again, somewhat more insistently.

"Or tails?" The brother Lutece's tone had a decidedly threatening tone to it. Booker groaned aloud. What the Hell were these two doing here? And how had they even gotten here? Hadn't they left him at the—

Booker's alarmed, rapid internal monologue was cut short by the brother Lutece, who was wearing some sort of scoreboard and looking entirely disgruntled, all but hurling a silver coin at his face. He fielded it hastily and gave the twins a blank stare.

"Heads—"

"— _Or tails._ "

Booker sighed. It was obvious they were not going to let him pass until he played along.

"Heads," he said helplessly, and flicked the coin into the air. It landed on the sister's tray with a clang, spun for a moment, and clattered to a halt.

Heads. The sister procured a piece of chalk and made a tally on her brother's scoreboard. Booker stared at it. There were hundreds of marks under the label ' _heads_ ', and none at all under ' _tails_ '.

"Told you," the brother said mournfully. "I never find that as satisfying as I'd imagined."

"Oh, chin up." The sister patted his cheek as if he were a small child. "There's always next time."

And with that, they turned around and walked away.

Booker followed them around the corner only to find that they had vanished entirely. There were no doors into which they could have ducked, and the street was open and free of hiding places; and anyways, he sort of doubted they were hiding in a trash can.

"Huh," he said, because there really wasn't anything else for him to say, and resumed his journey towards the tower.

It was almost directly above him now, blotting out the sun that had, over the course of his trek through the city, climbed almost to its zenith. From this angle, the massive statue seemed crowned by rays of light, but her face was pooled in shadow. To Booker, her expression still seemed incredibly sad.

 _No wonder,_ he thought dryly. He'd be sad too, if he'd been forced to grow up alone inside a giant angel with the expectations of an entire city-state resting on his shoulders.

God, now he was becoming a sentimentalist. The sooner he got the girl out of here, the better.

Of course, he had to get there first. He'd been following signs for over an hour and had yet to find a way to the island. Sighing, he paused to assess his surroundings.

He stood in an open square at the very edge of the island, close to the statue. Clusters of houses and brownstones and promenades bobbed about in the near distance, regularly lit by showers of fireworks. In the distance, a choir was singing. To his left, yet another sign pointed him in the direction of Monument Island, but it too had a pasted amendment announcing that the tower had been closed down.

He'd just have to make peace with the idea of asking for directions, then.

Booker headed off in the direction of the singing. Singing meant people, and people meant maybe there'd be someone he could ask. Since he'd left the fair he'd seen almost no-one, let alone anybody who looked like they were going to tell him anything useful10. There was another sign up ahead, though, in the style of the Monument Island posters, and it didn't have a pasted notice over it.

 _Finally_ , Booker thought.  _Maybe I'll get some answers._

It is, of course, the principle of dramatic irony at work here. It was apparent from the moment Booker came within reading distance that this sign had no answers for him, for all it depicted was a hand, wreathed in flames.

 _You shall know the False Shepherd by his mark_ _,_ it said.

The back of the demonic hand read simply,  _A.D._

Booker stared at it."What."

When the sign, being a sign, failed to respond, he spoke again, more urgently. "What the hell is going on?"

No answers were forthcoming. The back of his hand burned as if it had been dipped in fire. Booker clawed at it until the thick, jagged letters were pink and stinging, but both his brand and that of the poster remained stubbornly in place.

For the first time, Booker found himself wondering if the Prophet might know something after all.

 _No way,_ he told himself sternly.  _All that stuff is bullshit. This must be Samuels's doing, but why? What's his game?_

If it were, there would be only two people with the answers he sought: Comstock and Samuels. If Comstock thought he was this False Shepherd, there was going to be no way Booker could peaceably parlay with the man, so that left Samuels. His job now had a time limit. He hurried past the sign with a greater haste to his steps, hoping to find a way to the island before some other complication arose.

Of course, as we all know, this is not how it works. As Booker rounded the corner, past a pair of olive-suited policemen chattering excitedly over some sort of hooked contraption, he was hailed yet again by a strange woman's voice.

"Hey, mister! Over here! Mister!"

He turned. At the bottom of a sloping path was a mass of people, bouncing and cheering with the frenetic excitement of fairday crowds everywhere. Above them was a stage, upon which stood a man bearing a top hat, a heavy felt coat, and an impressive handlebar moustache. He was shouting to the crowd in a boisterous, joking voice; they were shouting back at him just as energetically, demanding that he stop stalling and start the raffle. Directly below him stood a young woman with a basket. It was she who had called him, and when she saw that he was looking her way, she bounced on the balls of her feet and waved at him frantically.

Booker approached her cautiously. She looked very much like the vigor saleswoman, all wide blue eyes and freckled nose and breathy laugh.  _What do they do_ , he wondered in amused bafflement,  _send out a batch order for these girls or something?_

"Mister, wouldn't you like a ball?" The young lady gestured to the contents of her basket. It was filled with baseballs; Booker could see bright red numbers painted on some of them.

"Sorry," he told her. "No sale."

She laughed at him, sounding exactly like the Possession girl. It was sort of uncanny, actually. "There's never a charge for the raffle, silly! You been sleeping under a rock?"

Booker sighed. "If I take one, will you tell me how I can get to Monument Island?"

She winked at him. "It'll be our little secret."

Well, at least  _someone_ in this city was capable of being helpful10. Booker decided he rather liked this girl. Giving her a rare genuine smile, he reached down, picked the top baseball up from the pile and turned it over.

 _77_ was emblazoned upon its face in bright red paint. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. ' _Whatever you do, do not pick #77..._ '

"Seventy-seven, that's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you," the raffle girl purred at him, and slipped off into the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," shouted the mustachioed man on the stage, as if on cue11, "the 1912 Raffle has officially begun! Bring me the bowl!" A cheer went up as the young woman reappeared beside him, having traded her basket of baseballs for a huge clear glass bowl full of slips of paper. The announcer gestured to her grandly, and she gave the crowd a deep curtsey.

"Is that not the prettiest white girl in all of Columbia?"

More cheers. With a dramatic flourish, the man reached into the bowl and swirled his hand around for a moment, before coming up with a scrap of paper between his forefingers. He made a great show of reading it while the crowd around Booker urged him to hurry up, and then cried out—

"The winner is...  _Number seventy-seven_!"

"Well, what d'you know," Booker muttered with a dry smile. So much for Lutece's apparent clairvoyance.

"Number seventy-seven, come and claim your prize!" The man on the stage shouted. " _First throw_."

Something in the man's tone of voice gave Booker pause. "Wh—"

Behind the man, the stage curtains were being swept aside. Behind them was a setup of colorful plyboard flats, painted with leaves and leering monkeys. Between the flats were tied two people in tattered rags: a fair-haired man, deathly pale except for several large, ugly green-purple bruises, and a young black woman with a deep, vivid gash across one cheek. They were struggling valiantly against their bonds, and the man was pleading desperately to the stage announcer, begging him to let her go, that it was all is fault, that he'd take any punishment if only she could go free.

The announcer paid him no mind. "Well?" he said to Booker, and there was something mocking, taunting in his voice that raked up Booker's spine and made his fists clench in anger and disgust. "Are you going to throw it, or are you taking your coffee  _black_ these days?"

There was a round of nasty laughter from the crowd.

" _Please_ ," sobbed the man on the stage. Booker met his eyes only briefly, but his decision had already been made; if the man had been silent and stoic it would have changed nothing.

He raised his arm, to the expectant hush of the crowd, and hurled the baseball at the announcer's face.

Or he would have, if a policeman had not seen what he was trying to do and grabbed his wrist. There was a long silence.

Then the policeman shouted, " _He's the False Shepherd!_ ", and all hell broke loose.

The crowd screamed and scattered, people shoving desperately at each other in an effort to get away. Another officer appeared out of the chaos and grabbed Booker by the shoulders. This one had one of the hook-blade devices, and it whirred to life as he came near, swinging straight for Booker's face.

Booker moved. He wrenched his right arm free of the officer holding it and flung the baseball he'd not gotten the chance to throw straight up into the air. Both policemen jumped and looked up at it, startled. Before they could recover themselves, Booker grabbed the first officer by the hair and the second by his hook-blade and, without even thinking about what he was doing, shoved the former's face straight into the spinning blades.

Booker would have liked to say that he'd forgotten what it was like to kill someone up close, with his hands. He'd have loved to be able to say that he'd been so disgusted with himself that he'd forced the memories away.

But Anna was gone, and he'd broken the promise on the back of his hand years ago, and there was a wet, viscous  _crunch_ and blood and flesh and chips of bone and other, wetter things that Booker didn't want to contemplate went flying everywhere, and when he shoved the living officer away from him with shaking hands, he realized he remembered all too well, and was not burdened by remembering.

The other officer came at him again, swinging wildly with his nightstick, but Booker had parted him from his hook-blade when he'd shoved him away, and now he slid it onto his own arm and parried hurriedly before the club came down.

The officer bounced away, shouting curses, and charged him again.

Booker clenched his fist inside the device, and the hooks whirred to life, and he brought it down straight between the officer's eyes.

The man stumbled backwards and collapsed, less about half of his head; Booker staggered in the other direction, gasping, arms and face sticky with blood. He scrubbed at it with the back of his free hand, leaving dark red-black smears across his skin, obscuring his scars.

When he looked up again, the raffle square was completely deserted. He glanced to the stage in time to see two figures vanish behind the backdrop.

Good. At the very least, their escape would be a kick in the balls to all the people who'd been all set to happily stone them to death on a public stage.

Now all that was left was to get the girl and get out of here before the entire city knew his identity.

Booker turned and fled the other way, heading for Monument Island with all the speed he could muster.

* * *

7\. That wasn't to say he hadn't enjoyed himself at the time, but he'd still been on the job; and while Booker would be the first person to agree that it wasn't a worthwhile venture unless you regretted  _something_ about it, this particular endeavor had left him with a bit more guilt than he really would've liked.

8\. I'm not sure I want to know what he means by that.

9\. I'm  _certain_ I don't want to know what he means by  _that_.

10\. That thought had a very pointed air to it. I'm sure I don't know what he means.  
...Really, though, there is no call for him to be so rude! We're merely doing our jobs as omniscient narrators, you know. What sort of Trickster Mentors would we be if we gave him clear and useful advice?  _Honestly_!


	4. The Girl Who Kicked the Songbird's Nest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, frickin finally! I am SO SORRY this chapter took so long. It started out being 12,000 words – almost as long as the previous three chapters combined! I probably should've just cut it into two or even three chapters, but I'm loath to delay the AU much more and we're already looking at 21 chapters. So... this is going to be a novel. I hope you're up for it!
> 
> One question for you guys, re: the footnotes. Reader response to the content has been overwhelmingly positive, but there's some contention as to the format. Several people prefer them at the bottom of their respective paragraphs, rather than between section breaks; several prefer them at the bottom, so they can reopen the story in a new tab, keep it scrolled down, and just tab between them whenever there is one. Let me know which of these you'd prefer, if you've got a different idea, or if you'd rather I just leave them out entirely.  
> (For this chapter, I'll leave them at the bottom for tab viewing, so that I don't go crazy trying to format them and end up with orphaned footnotes floating around like I did last chapter. Sorry about that, by the way.)
> 
> And, last but certainly not least, thanks a million to my wonderful beta [proserpinasacra](http://archiveofourown.org/users/proserpinasacra), without whom this would be a rambling, incomprehensible monstrosity rather than the coherent story it is.

_"When we lose the right to be different,  
_ _we lose the privilege to be free."_  
—Charles Evans Hughes

  
**CHAPTER FOUR:**  The Girl Who Kicked the Songbird's Nest.

"But Madame Lutece—"

"That's enough out of you, child. The Prophet doesn't want you reading, and I quote, 'things of such an inflammatory nature.' He's afraid you'll start to get ideas."

Elizabeth made a truly pathetic noise and threw herself backwards onto her bed. "But  _Madame_ , I haven't even gotten to the uprising yet, it's only just about to begin!"

"Yes, and that's why the Prophet has instructed me to take the book from you now," Rosalind said, not unkindly. "He seems to be under the impression that you'll try to start a rebellion yourself as soon as you read another page."

Pouting, Elizabeth sat up and hurled the book at the wall, where it made a large and visible dent.

Rosalind smiled at that. "He's not going to be happy about that," she said.

"Good," said Elizabeth petulantly. "You will tell him, won't you?"

"I shall, if that's what you wish."

"What I wish is that I could keep my book! Now I'll never know what happens, and Marius and Éponine really must run off together, and— oh, Rosalind, couldn't you let me keep it for just one more day?" She fluttered her eyelashes at the red-headed woman hopefully, but as usual, her entreaties had no effect whatsoever. Madame Lutece gave her a stern look.

"And risk the wrath of your dear guardian? My, but we are daring today."

Elizabeth's face fell and her shoulders drooped. "He... he would be angry with me for disobeying, wouldn't he?"

"He's very sensitive, for a piece of automata," agreed Madame Lutece, patting Elizabeth's shoulder. "Now, if you please." She held out a hand.

Sighing dramatically, Elizabeth slipped down off the bed, padded over, and retrieved her now rather battered copy of  _Les Misérables_. Madame Lutece took it briskly, and then relented.

"I do believe I've misplaced your lessons for today," she said, sounding sly. "If you hurry while I go to fetch them, you might have time to read the last few pages and not tell me about it."

Elizabeth gave her a watery smile. It looked as if she were trying very hard not to cry. "That's very kind, but I just couldn't. I doubt I'd know what was happening anyways, what with how longit is, and Rosalind,  _what if someone dies!_ "

Now Madame Lutece looked as if she were trying to keep a straight face. "That is a possibility, yes."

Elizabeth took one look and saw right through her. "Oh, now I  _have_  to know! Give it here!" She snatched the book back from Rosalind's hand, threw herself down on the bed again, and began flipping to the end as quickly as she could. 

Chuckling quietly to herself, Rosalind Lutece turned and headed out to fetch her bag.

* * *

 _Never gamble with a Sicilian, and never get into a land war in Columbia_ , Booker thought, with a bitter sort of amusement, as he yanked the end of the gauze tight and pulled his sleeve back down over his newest bullet wound. 

He was sitting half-obscured within a rosebush directly beneath a very frustrated military automaton, which was swiveling this way and that, bells ringing, as it searched desperately for his hiding place. It shivered and fuzzed with that painful green aura, and every few seconds it would shudder, grainy-gray, and go silent, the lights of its eyes flicking from orange to green, but Booker didn't have the energy to push it around into its friendly state at the moment. He'd learned to use the effects of the rather unsettling Possession vigor to his advantage very quickly, and had even faster become exhausted by its use. His head ached every time he used it, and if he did so too often, blood began to drip sluggishly from his mouth and nose.

A sudden whirr overhead alerted him to the latest wave of officers, using their hooks to sail down from parts unknown along the dozens of steel cargo lines that connected the islands of Columbia. Booker scrunched himself down further inside the rosebush as the officers fanned out, shouting to each other as they searched for him. He peered out through the branches, assessing the situation momentarily. Only one of them wielded a gun; the others had only nightsticks and sky-hooks. That made the man with the firearm his priority, but said officer was currently on the other side of the courtyard, kicking open the door to a small shop, which had been barricaded from the inside when the fighting began. There were shouts from inside, and a woman's voice, and Booker heard the officer apologizing; then he moved on to try the next door.

Booker rolled over onto his knees and laid a hand on the cool metal of the automaton's base. It didn't feel him, being a hunk of metal, but it buzzed and scratched at his skin, and he thought that he might have enough energy after all. He  _pushed_ , and the automaton vibrated and fizzed in and out of focus and then, suddenly, snapped back into reality, rang loudly, and began firing upon the Columbian officers.

The momentary chaos created by the automaton's sudden shift of allegiance gave him the time necessary to duck out of his hiding place and dart across the courtyard to crouch behind an abandoned ice cart. The policeman with the pistol saw him, but he'd been counting on it; as soon as the officer came to flush him out, he rolled from behind the cart, grabbed the man by his collar, yanked him down, and shot him in the back of the head.

One of the other policemen had escaped the automaton's immediate line of fire, and came at him, nightstick raised. Almost laughing at the pathetic level of dedication these men had— how many of them had he killed already today?— Booker shot him too.

There was a heavy  _clunk_ as the officer fell. Booker kicked the corner of the man's coat aside to see a large green-and-red Possession bottle and two small blue phials tucked into an inner pocket. He fished one of the phials out and looked at it curiously.

 _Fink's Invigorating Salts_ , it said, on the top of its label, and  _For the Frequent Vigor User!_  along the bottom. He flipped it over.  _Take as Needed to Reduce Vigor Fatigue. Warning: Overuse May Cause Jitters, Blurred Vision, and Multiple Realities._

Booker blinked at it, and then, following his imprudent habit of tasting things he probably shouldn't, raised the phial to his lips.

The liquid inside was bittersweet and oddly cold, and it made the world fuzz for a moment. Then his vision righted itself with a rush of sharp clarity. He felt as if he'd downed a canister of the sharp black coffee they'd been given in the army, but at least this stuff tasted better. Booker dropped the little bottle into his bag, stepped over the officer's corpse, and slunk quickly away down a winding side-street before more armed forces could arrive.

* * *

Songbird's eyes were orange when he came in, and Elizabeth knew that Madame Lutece had made good on her promise to tell the Prophet about her insolence.

"I'm sorry," she said, and Songbird glared at her, first out of one eye and then out of the other. He whistled sharply, accusatory. "I know," Elizabeth sighed. "I shouldn't have lost my temper. But why does he care so much about what I do? I've never even seen him, and he never comes to talk to me at all! Not like you do."

She reached up and laced her hands around one of Songbird's huge claws, smiling in conciliation. Flattery was the right choice, she knew immediately: with a faint  _clunk_ his eyes cycled back to green, and he reached down and obliged her entreaty to be picked up, wrapping his huge hands around her waist and tucking her into the gap between the plates of his shoulder and one huge canvas wing. The metal of his skin was cool, and though she'd grown a bit too big to fit comfortably, she could still curl up into the little notch where his neck met his shoulder and rest her cheek against his.

Her keeper whistled fondly and flexed his wings out, cradling her, and Elizabeth smiled sadly. He could be demanding and impatient, and he was very strict, but still, she supposed she loved him. He was her only friend, up here in her lonely chambers in the sky. Even Madame Lutece only came to her at the behest of the Prophet. She doubted anybody else knew she even existed at all.

* * *

"Shitshitshitshitshitshit _shit_ —!"

Booker stumbled up the hill as fast as he could, panting curses, shoving barrels out of his way and ducking around corners at random. Behind him, the man in the terrible flaming machine roared and rattled and clanged in pursuit. Fire exploded around him and he barely managed to get clear, wedging himself between a gate and a wall and fumbling with the cartridges of his filched volcanic pistol. What he wouldn't give for his old Springfield...

But Booker had more pressing concerns, like the rapidly-approaching monster of a man, who, having lost sight of him, was now hurling clusters of embers into every hiding place he found. The resulting explosions were edged in grainy gray, and Booker wondered what sort of terrible mind had come up with such a vigor.

 _Puts a whole new meaning to the word 'fireman',_ he thought wryly1, as he slotted the new cartridge into place.

Another shout and round of explosions signified the approach of the fireman around the corner. Booker gritted his teeth against the mounting pain in his arm, took a breath, and darted out from his hiding place.

"False Shepherd—!" the fireman bellowed, rounding on him, and Booker flung out a hand and the fireman shuddered and jerked and stopped.

Gasping, Booker sank down onto a crate and ran a hand through his hair. The more he used the vigor, the shorter it lasted— but the ones he'd fired in the beginning were still working, and he thought that maybe he might have a plan after all.

He staggered to his feet and headed up the hill, praying that his old friend the automaton turret was still on his side.

To his utter relief, it was. The fireman loped amiably up the street after him, but halfway along the block jerked to a stop and once again shuddered violently. The haze surrounding him fizzled away, and the engines somewhere within his terrible suit roared to life again—

And the automaton came alive as well, spraying bullets across the courtyard. The fireman shouted and tried to lumber into cover, but while Booker, though tall, was at least human-sized, there was nowhere big enough to accommodate the monstrosity's flaming bulk.

There was a high-pitched mechanical whine, and then the fireman exploded.

Debris, shrapnel, and embers rained everywhere. Booker threw his arms up over his head just in time; glowing coals pattered down around him, striking his skin in a bright painful shower before rolling onto the ground and fading out.

Mildly burned, but otherwise alive, Booker got stiffly to his feet and looked around. The only evidence of his inflammatory foe was a large scorch mark on the cobblestones, several scattered, smoking chunks of metal, and, sitting in the gutter a dozen feet away, the red-orange bottle of a vigor.

He went over to it, picked it up, and turned it over in his hands. A horned, tailed woman blew a kiss of flame from her position atop the cork, and the bottle was labeled in crimson ink.

"'Devil's Kiss'..." he read. "Well, you only live once7."

The vigor was spicy-sweet like cinnamon, cloyingly thick, and warm. For a moment nothing happened, and Booker felt a swell of disappointment. Then red spots exploded across his vision, and through the staticky haze his shuddering hands peeled and blistered, the skin sloughing off to show bone beneath. Carving Anna's memory into his hand had not burned so fiercely; but before he could cry out, the pain had ceased, leaving him shaking, sweating, and entirely unharmed.

 _What asshole thought_ that _was a good idea?_ Booker didn't really understand how the vigors worked, but it seemed to him there had to be a better way than intense hallucination to indicate that they had. He ran a hand through his hair, shook his head, and walked stiffly to the end of the street. There, he leaned against the brass gate for a moment to catch his breath, staring out over the sea of clouds.

Fireworks still sparkled in the air over some of the other islands every few dozen seconds, and distant music drifted on the breeze; it appeared word of the False Shepherd's coming had not yet reached the entire city. That was a small blessing, at least: it was difficult enough to get close to Monument Island  _without_ the entire city on the lookout for him.

He still had to figure out a way around this latest roadblock the end of the street presented, though. The fact that he'd reached a point where his island appeared to be constructed to dock with another was a good sign, but the board with all the docking times of all the other islands it connected to had been yet again pasted over.

_Monument Island, 12:00 - 1:00. Closed by Order of the Prophet._

Below that, though, was a subscript that had not been present on the other signs. Booker peered at it more closely. "'To visit the Island outside of standard docking hours, or for a special event, please consult the Monument Island Railway for further debarkation times'," he read aloud. "Huh."

Straightening up, he shaded his eyes and squinted up at the tower. If he looked closely, he could just catch the glint of swooping steel rails, connecting the tower physically to several other islands. Most dipped down into the cloud layer and were lost, but one arched towards his own island to disappear behind a restaurant to come to rest not too far away.

" _Finally_ ," he said, half-laughing with relief. Any longer, and he'd've had mind to just give up the whole endeavor, toss New York, and deal with whatever Hell Samuels sent after him on his own terms. It might yet come to that still, but at least now he had a definite lead.

A throb from his wounded arm reminded him that he still had matters more pressing than even the job at hand. At best, the restaurant might have a stash of medical supplies; at worst, there would be gin and linen. He'd been in the army; if he couldn't scrap up a working bandage on the fly, he'd have been dead amongst the cactus a decade ago.

Pistol at the ready, Booker edged open the restaurant door, peered inside, and seriously considered shooting the occupants just on principle8.

"We have company."

"We do indeed."

"What are— whyare you following me?"

" _We_ were already here."

"Why are _you_ following _us_?"

Booker lowered his pistol and gave a weary sigh. The sister smiled serenely at him. He did his utmost to ignore her, but he could feel her eyes on his back as he skirted between the tables and bumped open a door marked ' _Employees Only_ '. The room beyond was small, with a deep basin, several spare wait uniforms, piles of clean linens, aprons, and dishtowels, and, blessedly, a small medical kit tucked under the sink. Above that was the same painting of Comstock's Lady, the one of her in the dark blue walking gown.

Booker looked up at her with a degree of calm that surprised him. "So _now_ you're gonna follow me around, huh? Should've stayed gone, for all the good it did you."

"You know," the brother said casually from beyond the open door, "talking to paintings is a definite sign of madness."

"Thanks for the tip," Booker grumbled back. He snatched the canvas pouch up from under the sink and left the little room as quickly as he could.

Both twins were giving him odd looks when he emerged. Still pointedly ignoring them, he settled himself on a bar stool, rolled up his sleeve, and then, gritting his teeth, yanked the gauze off of his arm.

The wound was shallow, and the bullet had missed the bone, but that was only a small mercy. Bandages pilfered from a kicked-over vending machine, no antiseptic, and several hours' worth of running and fighting had not done him any favors. The puncture was raw, half scabbed, and sluggishly oozing blood; the skin around it was reddish-purple, swollen, and hot, and it  _hurt_.

"God _damn_ it." Booker had dealt with field infections before, and it was not an experience he cared to repeat.

The Twins exchanged glances. "We have just the thing," the sister said.

Booker glared bloody murder at them. As usual, they remained perfectly unfazed.

There was a moment of awkward silence. Booker was beginning to get the impression that this would be a common occurrence whenever he dealt with them.

"...Well?"

The brother reached under the counter and came up with a yellow bottle, not unlike the sort the vigors came in.

"Be careful," the sister said. "It can sting a bit."

Booker rolled his eyes and reached for the bottle, but the brother pulled it back with an odd expression of perplexed curiosity upon his face. "What's that you've got for me in that satchel of yours?"

He stared at the other man in mild disbelief. "You want me to pay you, you're gonna have to do better than that."

"Fine. I shan't fix that device you have for you, and you'll never find out what your dearly departed lady friend had to say."

Booker blinked at him, entirely taken aback. "What, the— the gramophone thing?"

"That's the one. It's called a voxophone, by the way, though the distinction is nominal."

"Uh, sure. Take it." He dug into his bag and pulled out the device. It looked battered beyond repair. The brother, though, seemed to disagree; he took it in both hands and began studiously pulling it apart, so Booker returned his attention to the bottle he'd been given. It was full of a sickly yellow liquid that did not shimmer, fuzz, or fade in and out of existence. In fact, besides its decidedly unappealing color, it looked perfectly normal.

He really shouldn't have felt as disappointed by that as he did.

Shrugging, he uncorked the tonic.

Really, he should have expected by then that anything he ingested, no matter its appearance, was not going to be normal. Everything blacked out, and there was the sensation of being slowly squeezed, and when his vision returned there was a strange sheen a quarter-inch above his skin, and the bullet wound was entirely healed. The only indication that he'd been shot at all was a scar across his upper arm, so pale and faded he'd've thought it had been there for years.

"What the Hell was that?" It felt like he'd been asking that question a lot.

The brother looked up from his intent dismantling of the voxophone. "Hm. Surprising."

The sister's response sounded the tiniest bit smug. "Surprising that it worked?"

"Surprising that it didn't kill him."

"A magnetic-repulsion field around one's body can come in handy."

" _If_ it doesn't kill you."

"Would you just," Booker said helplessly, and gave up.

The brother finished threading the shiny black tape into the voxophone and slotted the grooved disc into place.

"Here."

Booker took it dubiously. "Thanks."

"Mm. If I were you, I'd consider carefully before listening to it."

"The word of a disciple can be distressing indeed," the sister agreed. "Particularly when one was acquainted with said disciple before a certain Prophet got his hands on her, in both the metaphorical and the literal sense."

"You'd best be on your way if you don't want him to get his hands on you as well," said the brother, "and I do doubt he'll be as gentle as he was to your dear—"

"Don't," Booker said, and there must have been something in the tone of his voice that brooked no disagreement, because for once the Twins did as he said.

"The point remains," the sister said after a moment. "If you want to get your job done, you'd best be on your way."

"You'll find no argument from me," Booker muttered, shooting her a pointed glance. He stood up stiffly from the barstool and brushed past her, into the back storeroom of the restaurant.

"Good luck," the brother called after him, and perhaps he was going crazy, but there was something decidedly sinister about the cant of those parting words.

* * *

They were waiting for him when he left the restaurant.

Booker ducked out of the storeroom and came out onto a docking bay at the very edge of the island. Through the slats beneath his feet, he could see clouds, and, a long, long way below them, a flash of green that disappeared as quickly as it had come. Swallowing his vertigo, he stepped out onto the platform and looked around. There was another island about a hundred yards distant, and this appeared to be the one to which the shipping rails led.

How he was going to get there, however, was another matter entirely. There were no rails connecting the two islands. Booker frowned and scouted along the edge of the dock, hoping for some indication as to what he was supposed to do next.

Much to his surprise, his search was successful. There was an arrow painted on the wall, pointing upwards. Following it with his gaze, Booker saw a curved hook dangling from the end of a scaffold that protruded from the wall. From it hung a white tin sign: ' _Skyhook connection point_ '. Doubtful, he regarded it for a moment, looked down at the hook-and-bracer contraption, and then back up at the freight hook again. It looked fairly sturdy, but it was a good twenty feet in the air. There was no way he was jumping to it; maybe he could climb up onto those crates...

Irritated, he clenched and unclenched his fingers inside the bracer. The hooks whirred to life only briefly, but in the instant that they did so, there was a sharp tug on the device, and Booker found himself drawn towards the freight hook a good foot and a half.

Experimentally, he tightened his hand again. There was a moment's delay; then, as soon as the blades had got up to speed, he was jerked roughly into the air. The force with which he connected to the freight hook threw his hand open and ought to have dislocated his wrist at the very optimistic least, but the padded bracer clamped down on his arm and took a good deal of his weight.

Booker hung for a moment, bewildered, and then tucked his free arm through the iron lacings of the scaffold, braced his legs against the wall, and disengaged the sky-hook from its slot. Gingerly he adjusted his hands until he was sure that he wouldn't get caught if he let go, and looked out, searching for another anchor.

He found one about fifty yards away, floating on a solitary striped balloon halfway between him and his destination. It was a long jump and a further fall, but there was another arrow on the side of the little tower, pointing him in its direction. It was follow it or give up, and though he wasn't looking forward to the former, he certainly wasn't about to do the latter.

 _What I'll do to see a job done,_ he thought sourly. Samuels and the other Pinks would be having such a laugh if they could see him now.

Well, if he died, he wouldn't have to deal with them anymore; if he didn't, he'd be that much closer to being done and gone. He hauled himself up to the top of the scaffold, crouched there for a moment, and then flicked the sky-hook to life and jumped.

For one terrifying moment, the cold green-and-gray void rushed beneath his feet and he felt certain he was going to fall, but then there was a violent jolt that knocked all the air from him, accompanied by a loud _clang_ , and he swung to a halt, hanging securely from the little floating tower.

He dangled briefly, catching his breath; then he pulled himself up to the top of the scaffold, found the next arrow, and jumped again. This hook was attached to the side of a free-floating two-story building only a few yards from the edge of the island, and beneath it was a dock much like the one from which he had departed.

Booker was about to swing out and jump down onto the main island when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. There were people milling about the alley there, men and a few women in pale blue uniforms. They were calling out to each other as they paced— things like, "He was last seen in this area!" and, "Do you see anything?" and "Goddamned False Shepherd" and "I can't wait until we have his head!" Several had pistols; most carried Hotchkiss M1909s.  _That_ was going to be a problem, Booker thought sourly. Before they could catch sight of him, he unhooked himself from the scaffold and dropped lightly down behind the crates stacked around the edge of the little loading dock. Beside him was a heavy iron furnace, stacked round with barrels of coal, and it and several of the crates around it jittered red and grainy at the edges. The furnace vacillated between cold and dark, and full of burning embers, while the crates opened and shut erratically. He _hmm_ ed and looked at his hand, which glowed and shuddered in the same way. A peek into one of the unstable crates revealed stacks of jars, and when he reached for one, it righted itself into stability and he picked it up.

The liquid inside was clear, thick, and oily, and Booker nearly dropped it. He was very, very glad he hadn't, but he smiled grimly at the notion. Stepping gingerly up onto one of the crates, he took stock of the patrolling soldiers, glanced back down at the little jar, and threw it as hard as he could.

There was no fire, as there had been with the vigor's previous owner. There was just a soft sort of _thwump_ and a huge billow of oily black smoke. Crates, shrapnel, debris, and bits of soldier erupted everywhere. Immediately there was a round of shouts, and a little boat-like flying machine rose up from the tangle of rooftops, bells ringing. Booker hurled another jar of nitroglycerin and pushed the furnace into reality, and coals sprayed out over the docks, igniting everything in their path. The turret automaton atop the flying machine exploded when the jar hit it, and this time there was fire aplenty as the little flying machine went down, alarum bells ringing frantically, its crew screaming as the flames swept over them.

Booker vaulted down onto the island, ducked down a flight of stairs, and skidded to a halt as another pair of soldiers appeared from under an iron railing. The first lost his head to the skyhook; Booker flung out his open hand and the second got a faceful of hot coals and tumbled backwards, clutching his burning face and shrieking. Booker silenced the man, bent down, and retrieved his fallen Hotchkiss, hefting it appreciatively. He'd never gotten a chance to use such a machine gun, but he'd been pitted against one before, and knew what a formidable weapon it would be. He rooted through the nearby crates for a moment, searching for ammo, and came up with several coiled magazines, a large bottle of vigor salts, and a handful of silver coins.

Satisfied, he piled his spoils into his bag, took one last furtive look around, hopped over a wooden sawhorse painted with the words ' _Do Not Cross!_ ', and headed out to explore the new island. The area he was in was predominantly residential and evidently very wealthy, all huge pale townhouses and planters overflowing with roses and hydrangeas. There was nobody around, to his utter lack of surprise; everyone had run inside, shuttered their windows and barred their doors when the docks behind their homes had begun exploding.

His path towards the railway led him to a massive mansion on a hill, its gates emblazoned with a spiked eye. There was no way around, so once again he found himself trespassing in someone else's house. The enormous and reverent statue of John Wilkes Booth in the center of the foyer made him feel significantly less guilty about doing so, as did the large number of hooded men that attacked him as soon as he made it to the upper level. He battered his way cheerfully through the huge house, leaving a trail of blue-robed, smoldering bodies in his wake. He was getting the hang of these vigor things, he thought, though he really needed to make better time: by the time he had reached the other end of the zealot house, he could look out the windows to see the sun falling low in the sky, far off over the edge of the world.

Booker pushed open one last door and then reeled back as hundreds upon hundreds of huge black birds exploded out at him, shrieking and cawing. Then they were gone, vanishing into thin air as quickly as they'd come. The hall fuzzed briefly about the edges as they disappeared. Booker stared blankly at the empty space into which they'd flown for a moment longer, and then returned his attention to the room beyond the door.

It was a greenhouse, full of twisting, stunted cypress trees hung with gold birdcages. The contents of the cages didn't look like birds, and the pale waxy spindly thing that looked suspiciously like half a hand discouraged him from investigating more closely. In the center of the room was a statue of the Lady, kneeling, her hands clasped, her blank marble eyes turned upwards towards the glass-bubbled sky. Below her, chained in cruciform between two trees, was the remnants of a man. The ugly stabs and lacerations that peppered every inch of his skin seemed a good indication as to what the rush of birds had been doing before Booker had opened the door. One of his eyes was missing; the other hung from its socket by a veiny thread. The air was full of the sound of wings.

He proceeded forwards cautiously, gripping the crank of the Hotchkiss a good deal more tightly than was strictly necessary. The flutterings intensified. A sudden shout made him start, and he spun around in time to fling coals at a vague and shadowy form that had appeared directly behind him.

But the embers sailed straight through the black haze and fizzled out on the damp grass. A moment later, another flock of birds rushed down out of thin air and coalesced into a man, hooded like the others and carrying a plated club. This time Booker was fast enough, and his avian assailant was rewarded with a shower of sticky fire. Shouting obscenities, he exploded into birds again before Booker could take a shot at him.

Never one to be deterred by the impossible, Booker began methodically scattering ash and ember throughout the grass. The next time the flock of birds appeared, the man they congealed into tripped straight into a clump of coals. His clothes ignited; he made no sound as he died, but simply dissolved into crows once more. The birds, though, shrieked with raucous panic as their feathers smoked and crumbled, until they too were nothing but cinders and, sitting on a wrought-iron table at the end of the greenhouse, a vigor, its bronze stopper in the fashion of a crow's head.

Booker picked it up. It tasted of burnt chocolate and was as cold as ice despite the heat of the greenhouse, and it filled the trees with birds. They were huge and jet-black, with pale beaks as sharp and broad as knives: rooks, then, or ravens, too big and vicious to be crows. The vigor hurled a stone into the flock and they rose in a massive cloud, storming and screaming bloody murder. They swirled around Booker in a demonic whirlwind, crowning him in glossy black and filling the air with the sound of their wings.

* * *

By the time Booker reached the Monument Island Railway, the sun had all but set, and he was exhausted. He'd fought his way more or less continuously from the House of Zealots all the way to the station, not that this was altogether terrible; he'd joined the army for a reason, and the Pinkertons for the same. But even a willing soldier has last legs, and he was coming close to his. It had been further than it looked to the Railway, nearly two miles— which was not far at all, but felt much farther when everyone he encountered was out to kill him. At one point he'd been forced to once again take refuge in someone's house, only to find its tenants eagerly describing him to a policeman, who was sketching the likeness out at an easel. It was a woefully inaccurate depiction, though closer to his appearance than the bulletins he'd been hearing; but before he could sneak back out the way he'd come, the woman had turned round, spotted him, and screamed. Her husband and the officer had been easy enough to get rid of— Booker was becoming very fond of his new corvid acquaintances— but they had left it up to him to deal with the woman. She had been crouched on all fours behind a table, but she had looked into his face at his approach with wide, tear-filled eyes.

His hand burned.  _You promised I would be the last_ , Anna's voice whispered in the back of his mind, sweetly, coldly, but he ignored it. He could feel guilty about the housewife's death when he and the girl were safely on a zeppelin back to New York. Right now, he just had to get there.

The automaton at the helm of the little gondola which sat at the station told him sternly that Monument Island was closed, and he'd have to leave before he was ticketed.

"I  _know_ ," he grumbled, in the half-hearted hope that it would be capable of answering him, rather than just a dumb machine.

It wasn't, but its recorded message continued despite his interruption. "Workmen should proceed to the tower by means of the sky-line."

Booker looked up at the sweeping steel rails, and remembered the policemen all the way back at the raffle square, using their spinning hooks to sail along them through the air. Well, it was worth a shot. He brought the hooks to life experimentally, and when they pulled him forwards he took a running step and jumped up to the rail.

Instantly he was yanked forwards, the dock receding behind him at a dizzying speed. He tried not to think too hard about what would happen if the device broke, if it let go of his arm and left him hanging on his own three miles above the earth; but trying not to think about something is a notoriously good way to become relentlessly plagued by that thing, so Booker concentrated on the swiftly-nearing statue instead. This also turned out to be inadvisable; there was a round of gunfire below him and he jerked around to see the Tower's docks swarming with men, all firing up at him and shouting. Before he could get to his pistol, though, a ringing voice sounded out above them.

_"Stand down!"_

Immediately all the soldiers dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, hands clasped and heads bowed. Booker took a wild guess as to who the voice belonged to and groaned. Of  _course._ It had been nothing short of naïve to think that he could actually get to the Tower without running into the Prophet himself, but he'd still hoped...

He let go of the skyhook's clamp, and the wheel clicked to a halt and slipped off the rail, dropping him to his feet in the midst of the soldiers. Not a single one looked up when he landed. They were all staring straight ahead at the cobbled ground, and many were deep in audible prayer. Booker saw one man's eyes flick to his fallen machine gun, but he did not move to pick it up. Their stillness was eerie.

Booker moved through the kneeling crowd towards the huge double doors that marked the entrance to Monument Island. They stood ajar, and he stepped through to find himself in the musty darkness of an elevator shaft. There were walkways every dozen feet or so, circling the shaft and crowded with soldiers, all on their knees and as still as statues. Booker wondered if the Prophet had intended for the effect to be as unnerving as it was.

The lift started moving as soon as he stepped up onto it, with such sudden speed that he nearly fell. There was a huge window high in the shaft, and through this Booker found himself staring into the Prophet's face. At first he thought it a recording, spilling onto canvas from unseen projector, but as he drew even with it, it spoke to him.

"I know why you've come, False Shepherd."

Booker scowled at him. "What do you want?"

Comstock laughed, the sound tinny and distorted, as if produced by something mechanical. " _Me_?What about  _you_? You've come to take my lamb from me, and for what? To repay a debt?"

Booker liked the man's mocking tone even less than he liked the notion that the Prophet knew far too much about him. He refused to believe the man could actually see the future— somebody must have set him up. Delaney or his attack dog Clancy, or even Samuels, for whatever unfathomable reason.

But then: "I know every sin that blackens your name,  _Booker_." He spat it like a curse. "Wounded Knee, the Pinkertons. The lies, the gambling, the debts. And how could I forget—  _Anna_." This name he said like it was holy, and Booker had wanted to kill plenty of people before, but never so dearly as he did Comstock in that moment.

 _I'll bet she hated you,_ he thought, though he would not give the other man the satisfaction of speaking, and he managed to keep his face a mask of cold indifference. If the Prophet was disappointed with this lack of reaction, he gave no sign, or perhaps he merely saw straight through Booker's feeble façade.

As soon as the lift hissed to a halt, Booker was gone, down the hallway and out of the Prophet's painful stare. He did not look back, but that distorted voice shouted from behind him: "You've come to lead my lamb astray, but thy crook is bent and thy path is twisted! Go back to the Sodom from which you came!"

On the last word, the hallway exploded. Half the building tore away beneath him and he was flung free, away from the island and out into the bottomless sky.

For one horrible moment, Booker fell through empty space, with nothing around him to delay his rapidly-approaching reentry into the world below. Then his trajectory brought him past the airship that had been the source of the blast, and somehow he managed to reach out and catch hold of one of the tacking lines that lanced down about the wings. The rope held him for only a moment before snapping, sending him tumbling down onto the outer deck.

Bruised, but thankfully no closer to becoming intimately acquainted with the ground, Booker got to his feet. Aside from the projection of the Prophet still splashed across its balloon, the airship appeared deserted. He didn't think Comstock would be all that pleased if Booker stole his ship out from under him, but at this point anything that made the former the opposite of pleased was a good thing. He still needed a way home, after all, and it was quicker than swimming.

He hurried to the cabin before the soldiers below could retrieve their weapons and begin firing upon the airship, and there he found that it was not deserted after all. A woman in one of the white cassocks stood before a rack of candles, head bowed like all the rest. Booker ignored her in favor of the airship's controls, which were unlike anything he'd ever seen. He'd driven a motorcar before, and if he really stretched his imagination, there was that deal with the train9, but this was nothing like either of those. He had just figured out which lever he thought was the throttle when a mechanical roar made him look up. The Prophet himself came soaring by on one of the little boat-shaped flying machines, and met Booker's eyes for just a fraction of a second.

"The Lord forgives everything," he said, "but I'm just a prophet— so I don't have to.  _Amen_."

"Amen," said the woman in the white cassock, and set herself on fire.

For those who do not know the process by which an airship such as the one Booker was currently attempting to steal is constructed, let it be known that the average fixed-frame dirigible contains anywhere from one to two hundred million gallons of hydrogen. Let it also be known that hydrogen just so happens to be one of the most flammable natural gases of common occurrence in the world.

The resulting fireball made a few casually-tossed jars of nitroglycerin look like child's play. All the windows in the cabin exploded outwards, and the airship screeched and roared and tilted and began to descend very, very quickly. The wooden hull splintered with a great and terrible shattering sound, and then split apart entirely, its back broken and its body cleaved in two.

A flash of arching metal caught Booker's eye, and without even thinking about it he scrambled to his feet and flung himself from the burning airship.

The force with which he connected to the skyline knocked all the air from his lungs, and even with the padded bracer taking the brunt of the blow, there was an excruciating  _crack_  that couldn't have been anything but his wrist breaking. But he was alive, and when he dropped, burned, bloody, and shaking, to the ground, he found himself standing at last before the great bronze angel of Monument Island.

She was so huge she blotted out the setting sun and a good three-quarters of the sky, and her base was swathed in floodlights and warning signs. Two huge padlocked gates stood between him and the entrance, but if Booker hadn't been able to get past a padlock, he would not have made it very far as a detective at all. Doing so with a broken wrist, though, was another story entirely, and he ended up using the last of his salts to melt the locks away rather than try and break or pick them. He'd stashed the skyhook and wrapped the joint tightly with a strip of linen, but it ached fiercely nonetheless, and was already turning a mottled yellow-purple.

For all the trouble he'd gone through to get here, this girl was going to have to really be something.

From all the trouble he'd gone through to get here, it seriously looked like she might.

The doors set into the base of the angel were made of heavy black iron, barred with a block of ancient wood. Rust and rot had warped the bar, and Booker had to ram it upwards with his shoulder to get it free; but the doors themselves swung inwards without a sound, and then he was inside.

The foyer of the Tower was entirely deserted and totally silent. In the center of the room was a miniature replica of the tower in gaily painted plaster, but it had been cordoned off by sawhorses painted with yellow-and-black warnings. Many of the lockers that lined the walls hung open, abandoned; most of the others had been rusted shut. Dust danced in the beams of dim sunlight and coated every surface in a thin but unbroken layer. Even the overturned chairs and the door that hung open from one hinge at the opposite end of the foyer had not been disturbed for a very long time. A faded sign in front of the angel informed Booker that there was a ' _56 Hour Quarantine Beyond this Point, By Order of the Prophet._ ' A gas mask stared sullenly up at him from the floor with shattered eye sockets, and he kicked it over as he passed, sending up a puff of dust. The silence was absolute and unsettling. He pushed past the unhinged door, and then another, this one intact, which stood closed but unlocked at the end of a short hallway.

The room into which he emerged was huge, easily five stories tall, and it was entirely filled by some sort of machine. The thing was fluted, shaped like some obscene flower: wide and petalled at the base, with bulbous stamens of blown glass, the central stalk tapering up into a rounded copper-and-glass spire that stretched forty feet into the air. Lines of lightning spread out from a copper sphere at the top of the spire to strike long metal strips embedded in the walls, and with each round of energy the entire room vibrated. Set between the conductors and into the petals of the machine were massive trumpet speakers, and through these came the sound of someone singing. Each note caused the machine to spit lightning more energetically, and sparks showered down to peter out upon the flagstones. A blackboard mounted before the device charted ' _Specimen Power Level_ ' before cutting off abruptly with a hasty ' _Facility Unsafe!_ ' that had been scrawled across the numbers in bright red chalk, and a sawhorse at the head of the chamber warned Booker, ' _72 Hour Quarantine Beyond This Point. Do NOT Approach the Siphon While Specimen is Being Drained._ '

He had a feeling he knew who the 'Specimen' was.

"'Drained'," he repeated slowly, with a cold sort of horror. This was the Prophet's  _kid_. What the Hell was the man doing to her? Taking the girl away from him was starting to seem a whole lot like a mercy.

He'd better get to her quickly, then. Very cautiously, Booker sidestepped around the huge machine, half-expecting to be struck by the lancing energy as soon as he drew near. But he made it unharmed to the other side, where a little round sidechamber opened out into three larger rooms. One looked like an operating chamber, with a chair in the center and sinister steel tools scattered about on the counters. There were iron restraints on the wrists and ankles of the chair. Booker left that room as quickly as he could.

The next was a darkroom, full of photographs hung out to dry. One he recognized as a larger print of the blurry picture of Elizabeth that he'd been given before he set out. The second showed her crouched in front of a door with two heavy locks: the first painted with a bird, the second with an empty cage. She was painting in another, though the easel was facing away and he could not see the subject. In the next, her bare back was to the camera as she stepped into a petticoat. Booker stared angrily up at the photographs. Not only were they watching her, which was questionable enough, but they were watching her  _all the time_. That was a good deal too unsavory for his taste, so once again, he moved on.

The last room had only a lift and another wooden caution sign. ' _128 Hour Quarantine Beyond this Point. Do NOT Speak to the Specimen. By Order of Chief Scientist Lutece._ '

"'Chief scientist'—?" Well, that explained how the Prophet had known he was coming, at least. Those— those goddamned ginger  _traitors!_  Of  _course_ it had been them.

Worry about that later, Booker told himself. You're almost done.

The lift took a very long time to reach its destination. It was not particularly slow— it was electrical rather than steam, the same sort they used to get to the aerodrome at the top of the Empire State Building— but nonetheless it took several minutes to come to a stop. He must be in the very top of the Tower, he thought.

The elevator let out into a little brass-lined room with a floor-to-ceiling panel in the opposite wall. There was a lever beside the panel, and a chair, and an old silvertype camera; painted onto the metal in yellow capitals were the words ' _OBSERVATION ROOM A_ ', and set into the wall to its left was a heavy valve door.

Curious, Booker pulled the lever. The panel groaned and accordioned sideways to reveal what had to be a two-way mirror, because behind it, apparently completely unaware that she was being observed, was—

Was— 

_No. Don't be an idiot, DeWitt, she's not her mother._

He stared straight into the young woman's face as she braided her hair in what she clearly did not know was a window into her bedroom. She looked younger than her seventeen years, but she carried herself with a grace that was distantly, achingly familiar. She was humming to herself, smiling slightly, and the longer he looked, the less she resembled the Lady who'd borne her. Even so, she had the same long, curly chocolate-black hair that spilled over her shoulders in glossy ringlets, the same pale blue eyes, same narrow shoulders, same  _nose_ — But her face was softer, rounder, her expression kinder. Her nose and cheeks were spattered with freckles. Her mother'd never had freckles...

Booker had to stop himself from slamming a fist against the glass. _Don't do this to yourself, DeWitt. This is Samuels's revenge, don't give him the satisfaction, don't do it...!_

Elizabeth finished tying off her plait with a blue silk ribbon and turned abruptly, darting out of the room and vanishing through an archway that led to somewhere Booker could not see. A small chime brought his attention back to reality, and to the valve door; a light had lit up on a sign beside it, which was labeled ' _Specimen Location_ ' and told him that she had just entered the parlor. He spun the wheel of the door and it hissed open, revealing a railed walkway, tucked beneath the curving brass plates of the angel itself.

The walk swept upwards and around to another valve door, which he opened to find Elizabeth standing at her easel. It had been turned since the time of its photographing, and he could see that she had rendered Paris with loving care, the Eiffel Tower outlined in bright yellow paint. She was staring at the canvas thoughtfully, and at first he assumed she was not finished with it; then the painting rippled with that static-gray fuzz he'd come to associate with the vigors.

Elizabeth did not use a vigor. She reached out and hooked her fingers into the center of the distortion, and she  _pulled_. The ripple flung itself open, and there, in her parlor at the top of the statue of the angel, was Paris. It shone with a thousand lights of evening, brighter than New York, as lovely as Columbia, and he could hear muffled music playing through the glass. Then there was a klaxon horn and some sort of automobile— not a car, it was far too large, and garish red— came barreling down the boulevard towards them. Elizabeth cried out in alarm and yanked at the edges of the hole in the air. For a moment nothing happened, and Booker feared she would be run down, but then there was a heavy shockwave and the rip slammed shut. The girl was thrown back against the mirror, and papers and scraps of canvas blew in a whirlwind around her. The painting was gone.

Looking severely disappointed, the girl turned and again left Booker's field of view, rubbing her shoulder where it had struck the glass. The chime indicated that she had moved on to the library; he followed the walkway around to the next door, but when he spun the wheel open, he found that it led not to another observation room, but to the exterior of the statue.

If the air had been cold in Columbia, it was frigid up here, a thousand feet higher, and the wind tore at him like to snatch him up and throw him out into the void. He stood on the angel's shoulder and looked out over the edge of the world.

"Oh, shit— okay," he told himself, and his voice was lost to the roar of the wind. "You can do this." He wasn't sure he believed himself.

The walkway led up, across the angel's shoulder to a door in the side of her face. It stood open, and he made himself move achingly slowly for fear of slipping on the smooth bronze. Inside, he felt a whole lot safer, especially after he'd spun the door shut behind him. There was no observation room beyond; merely a hanging circular platform that took up what had to be nearly the entirety of the width of the angel's face, and on the other side of the platform, directly across from him, an elevator. Booker headed for it, but halfway across, the chains supporting the surface creaked and cracked, and then the floor fell out from under him, sending him tumbling down into the room below.

Elizabeth was standing on a raised stage, staring wistfully out of a window that looked as if it had been set into one of the angel's eyes, but the commotion caused by Booker's sudden entrance into her quarters made her start and whirl around. Booker bounced off the edge of the stage, grabbed for it with his uninjured hand, and managed to halt his fall; then he hauled himself up and hooked his elbows over the lip of the stage, so that he was staring straight upwards into the young lady's face.

She stared right back at him with an expression of complete shock, frozen with a leather-bound copy of the  _Odyssey_  held before her like a shield.

"Uhm," Booker said, realizing how he must look, all bruised and filthy with bloodstained clothes. "Hi."

Elizabeth shrieked and hurled Homer's opus at him.

She had very good aim. Booker tumbled backwards off the stage to land on his back on the glossy hardwood floor, winded. There was a loud thump as  _Principles of Theoretical Physics_ bounced past his head, followed by a collection of Poe; Austen's  _Emma_ collided with his stomach, knocking the remaining breath out of him with a  _whoof!_

"Would you—" He raised his arm in time to deflect  _Another Ark for Another Time_ , its cover stamped with a colored lithograph of a half-constructed Monument Tower. "Would you  _stop that!_ "

Elizabeth froze, another book at the ready. Booker stretched a hand out to her, and she flinched. "Hey. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Her eyebrows crinkled down and she glowered at him suspiciously. "Don't come any closer." Booker held up his hands, palms out in a gesture of surrender, and did his best to look reassuring. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed further. "Who  _are_ you?"

"The name's DeWitt. I'm a friend. I've come to get you out of here."

Her eyes widened and her face went slack with delight at that. Cautiously, she lowered her book. Booker glanced at it surreptitiously: H.G. Wells, _The Invisible Man_. Not as efficacious a weapon as the  _Odyssey_ , perhaps, but he had to approve of her choice of literature.

"Are you real?" Elizabeth said, barely more than a whisper. Booker smiled at her, feeling oddly sad. How many people did the poor kid see on a day-to-day basis, he wondered?

"Real enough," he told her, and her smile widened. She reached out tentatively, and when he didn't move, she prodded his chest with the tips of her fingers as if verifying that he was, in fact, solid. This having been confirmed, she laughed breathlessly and let her book flutter to the floor. "I'm—"

She was cut off by a jaunty whistled tune, like something played on a penny organ. Booker looked around for the source, startled, but stopped when he saw the look on Elizabeth's face. "You— you've got to go," she said, sounding terrified.

"What? Why?"

"He's coming, you don't want to be here when he gets here! Go!" Elizabeth pushed at him hurriedly. From above came another whistling sound, but this was higher-pitched, mechanical, shrill and grating and harsh. Elizabeth turned and shouted up through the hole in her ceiling. "Just a minute, I'm getting dressed!"

"Look," Booker said, "just— I can get you out of here. Isn't that what you wanted?"

She turned to him, looking desperate and panicked. "There's no way out, trust me, I've looked—"

The noise came again, more insistently. Elizabeth glared back up at the ceiling and stamped her foot petulantly, and Booker had to stifle a snort. "Stop it! You're too impatient, that's enough!"

The answering whistle was milder, but still sounded irritated. Booker dug into his rucksack and pulled out the thaumatrope key, with the bird on one side and the cage on the other.

"What about this?"

"W-what about it?" Elizabeth wasn't looking at him; she was still staring up at the ceiling and shoving Booker backwards towards the wall. The shrilling sound had resumed and was growing louder, more rapid.

"This is the way out, isn't it?"

Now Elizabeth whirled to face him, saw the key in his hand, and snatched it away from him. "Wh— give it to me!" She twirled it around, watching the bird blur in and out of the cage. Then she held it up to a heavy door between two bookcases at the far end of the room. It was the same one she had been photographed investigating, the bird and the cage painted on its surface perfect matches to the thaumatrope key. Elizabeth ran to it, pushed the enameled bird aside, and fitted the key into the lock beneath. It turned; she did the same with the cage lock, and the door swung open just as the half-hanging disc in the ceiling fell free with a massive crash. There was another loud, prolonged shriek, and the ceiling started to crumble.

Elizabeth moaned. "Come on, we have to get out of here!" She shoved through the crack in the door, and Booker hurriedly followed, glancing behind in time to see one huge orange eye staring at him through a massive gash that had been torn through the wall.

"Down, go down," he shouted after the girl, squeezing past the heavy door as well. She didn't acknowledge him, but she ran down the walkway, back in the direction of the lift. Booker raced after her, drawing his pistol with his good hand, but before he could catch up with her the wall of the statue exploded. Huge brass claws raked the air, grabbing for him, and he stumbled backwards, cursing.

"The Hell  _is_  that thing?"

"It's his job to keep me locked up in here!" Elizabeth shouted. She had reached the valve door and was hauling ineffectually at the wheel, but she could barely get it to budge. Booker rolled under the groping claws, darted down the hall, and shouldered her aside.

"Hey!"

"Let me," he snapped, and, after a moment, "...Sorry." He got the door open and they darted into the observation room. Booker ran ahead and slammed a hand against the call button. Elizabeth was halfway to him before she noticed the two-way mirror and froze.

"That's my bedroom," she said in horror. "They were  _watching_ me?"

"Yeah," he said darkly.

She rounded on him. " _Why?_  What do they want from me? What do they—"

With a massive, terrible screeching, the elevator shaft was torn away. A wicked, curved metal beak stabbed into the gap, retreated, was replaced by a glowing red eye. That retreated too, only to be followed by another slash of those terrible claws, but the beast could not fit into the hole it had torn.

"That way! Go!  _Go!_ " Booker shoved Elizabeth out of the way, ducked around the claws, grabbed her shoulder, and hauled her back onto the walkway.

"Where are we going?"

"Up," he panted as they ran. He didn't have much of a plan, but at least they'd be able to see their assailant from the top of the tower. The thing appeared to be able to fly; if it was hydrogen-driven, perhaps it would be vulnerable to the fiery Devil's Kiss vigor.

"What do they want from me?" Elizabeth repeated, almost a sob. "What  _am_  I?" When Booker didn't respond, she shouted again, desperately— " _What am I?_ "

Booker didn't know. "You're the girl who's getting out of this tower," he told her, and meant it.

They ran. The metal bird-creature followed them, stabbing through the walls, ripping up the walkways, shrieking furiously, beating huge canvas wings against the sides of the statue as it tried to get to them. The tower rocked, and Elizabeth staggered and fell backwards. Booker caught her, propped her back on her feet, shoved her forwards again.

"He's tearing this place apart," she cried, stumbling as she craned her neck to stare at the beast.

"Be careful, Elizabeth!"

She rounded on him, expression unreadable. "How do you know my name?"

"This is really— not the best time—!" he gasped, leaping aside as a bronze support beam came crashing down in front of them, shearing the walkway in half. " _Jump!_ "

Elizabeth jumped, and Booker jumped after her, and then they were running up stairs, the girl's mechanical warden still hard on their tail.

The staircase spiraled upwards to let out on the very top of the statue. There was no railing, no platform, no walkway: only the smooth, tarnished bronze, and all around them empty sky.

There was another earsplitting shriek. Booker caught a glance of the thing as it swooped around them. It was huge, the size of a small building, part bird, part bat, all metal and canvas and tubing. It came straight for them, and Booker knew he wouldn't be able to fight it. He stuck his right hand into the bracer of the skyhook, wrapped his free arm around Elizabeth's waist, and, ignoring her increasingly-panicked cries of protest, hurled them both over the edge of the statue.

The nearest skyline was nearly two hundred feet below them, and they hit it hard, sending up a shower of sparks and a massive, bone-jarring clang. Booker thought his shoulder was going to dislocate, or that the hook would give and send them falling down to the world below, but somehow it managed to support the extra weight, and then they were flying.

Elizabeth clung to him, face buried in his shirt, making muffled whimpering sounds. "We're going to die, we're going to die, we're going to die!"

"We're not gonna die, just hold on!" Booker tried to sound reassuring and failed miserably. That terrible whistling screech came again, and Elizabeth's warden reared in front of them, shearing through the skyline with the earsplitting shriek of tortured metal.

There was nothing else to grab onto; the skyline disappeared upwards before Booker could register what was happening. The rail ran out and the hook spun free, the world whirling beneath them, and Elizabeth's hand tore from his. There was water below, closer than the earth, but still too, too far, and all around them was roaring, empty air; they grabbed for each other, missed, and then plunged helplessly towards the darkness below.

* * *

1\. That was absolutely _awful_. And he accuses  _us_ of having terrible minds2?   
2\. If he's going to start making puns on a regular basis, I think I'm going to have to agree with you, sister: this  _was_ a bad idea3.   
3\. I suppose you could say it was  _punfortunate_  that you didn't realize this sooner4.   
4\. That's it— I'm disowning you5.   
5\. I thought you'd be proud6.   
6\. No, not really.   
7\. This is a dreadful life philosophy that we heartily recommend against. While naming no names, we further recommend against any musicians who may or may not encourage you to behave along such lines.   
8\. There are several universes in which he does. It's just as amusing each time. In fact, we suggest you try it; we've been in pressing need of a laugh lately, and my sister, as you can see, has not been much help in the matter.   
9\. Which can't really be called 'driving' in any sense of the term, no matter how valiant the effort of imagination10.   
10\. You might say the entire operation was something of a train wreck11.   
11\. So help me,  _if I have to stop this airship...!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I live for your feedback! Let me know what I'm doing right, what I'm doing wrong, what you'd like to see changed, or anything else! I won't be insulted, I promise! I want to become a better writer, after all!
> 
> If you're interested, you can read about the Hotchkiss M1909 (which is the machine gun Booker would realistically have carried, and is a 30-pound monstrosity of a machine) [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hotchkiss_M1909).
> 
> Coming up next: **A Short Drop and a Sudden Stop** (also known as, HOW MUCH FLUFFY SHIP TEASING CAN I PUT INTO ONE CHAPTER WHILE STILL KILLING A BUNCH OF PEOPLE). Stay tuned!


	5. A Short Drop and a Sudden Stop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bluh, I'm so sorry about the wait! I seem to be incapable of getting this out at a reasonable pace. I'm still kicking though, don't worry! And I have no plans to abandon this project any time soon!
> 
> This chapter's quote has been brought to you by the Department of Gratuitous and Unnecessary Shakespeare. I swear I'm not only using it to sound erudite; it's relevant to the content, I promise!  
> (Speaking of which, how do we feel about the quotes? I try to find ones that seem fitting to either the events or themes of the chapter they precede, but if you don't like them, or find them unnecessary or distracting, don't hesitate to tell me!)
> 
> As always, your feedback has been great and wonderful I love all of you wow you're amazing guys gosh dgjhfjskfhdskjh TTvTT thANK YOOOUUUU
> 
> Aaaaand, despite my best efforts, we've got another long one here. It's not as bad as the previous chapter, but it's up there. Maybe the next few, which will contain _only_ the Hall of Heroes arc and the sequence by which Daisy gets ahold of the First Lady, will be shorter, but we'll see.
> 
> In other news, the story has now passed the hundred pages mark. Uh... Hooray?

  
_"Will all great Neptune's ocean  
_ _wash this blood clean from my hand?  
_ _No, this my hand will rather  
_ _the multitudinous seas incarnadine,  
_ _making the green one red."_  
—William Shakespeare

  
**CHAPTER FIVE** : A Short Drop and a Sudden Stop.

JULY 7, 1912

Once again, Booker dreamed of New York burning. The Lutece twins stood in the door to his office, haloed by a corona of flames, and smiled. Their eyes were black and empty pits.

He woke with a start, drenched in sweat.

No, not sweat. Seawater. He could smell it, hear the sound of waves, taste salt upon his lips. He was alive, then. Slowly, carefully, Booker cracked his eyes open. Blue sky swam into view above him, and then a blurry human figure, a girl. He could just make out long chocolate-black hair, the round hollows of blue eyes, a gentle smile. For a moment he thought that it was _her_ , that this was his punishment or his absolution, and he reached a heavy hand towards her face. He had to tell her, to say how _sorry_ he was, but all he managed was a slurred, "Anna..."

Small hands wrapped around his. "No," she said, giving him a sad sort of smile. "It's me, Elizabeth. Remember?"

Booker blinked and she wobbled into focus. Elizabeth. Right. "Uh. Where are we?"

"Back in the land of the living," she said. She was still holding on to his hand with both of hers. "You look terrible."

"'M fine."

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced. "I just... need a minute," he said thickly. Lord, he even sounded terrible. No wonder she didn't believe him. "Really."

Her unimpressed eyebrow did not lower, but she dropped his hand. It thumped heavily into the soft, scratchy sand, and he did his best not to be disappointed. Then the girl started suddenly and looked around, and Booker tried to sit up, steeling himself for a fight despite feeling like nine kinds of death.

"Do you hear that?"

"Wha, what?"

"It's music, Mr. DeWitt, don't you hear it?"

Booker sank back down in the sand, relieved. "Go on," he mumbled, flopping a hand vaguely in the direction she was looking. "I'll just be a minute."

"Are you sure?" It was clear the girl wanted to go, but she appeared loath to leave him lying in the sand like so much flotsam.

"Yeah. G'on. 'M'sure." Blackness was already clouding his vision. The last thing he saw was Elizabeth glancing over her shoulder at him as she walked away, an expression of deep concern upon her lovely face.

* * *

Booker had no perception of how long he laid there on the mysterious beach. Nobody interacted with him, though he could hear vague, distant voices that indicated that there were people nearby; if they knew of his current state they were either too afraid or too apathetic to approach. Eventually, though, he managed to open his eyes and sit up. Every inch of him ached, and his skin was dusted with bruises and sand in equal measure. His left wrist was blackened and throbbing, and his right shoulder felt sharp and tight. His head ached fiercely, and his mouth was sour and full of sand. In short, he felt like Hell.

Nevertheless, Booker made himself stand and assess his surroundings. He stood on a sunset-lit beach towards the bottom of the city. Below him, the day had cleared, or perhaps it was another; the clouds had parted to reveal patchwork fields of jewel-green, winding sun-gilded rivers, and, far off on the horizon, low rolling mountains. Above, though, heavy clouds obscured the rest of the city from view. It looked like it might rain, but that hadn't stopped the citizens of Columbia from enjoying their summer. Music was playing somewhere in the distance, and people were scattered across the beach: stretched out on blankets, digging in the sand, or wading in the short stretch of water that appeared to just cascade off the edge of the world about half a mile away. To his back, on the other side of the strip of sand, was a wall of colorful buildings, above which stretched a huge electrified sign that announced this place as 'Battleship Bay'. A dirigible hung with blue-and-gold bunting drifted above it, the buzz of its engines a gentle, muted roar.

Booker looked down again. His skyhook was wedged blades-first into the wet sand a few hundred feet away, accompanied by his leather bag, which had spilled open and was being attacked energetically by a pair of seagulls. He staggered over to it and kicked at the birds, which squawked reproachfully at him and flapped away only a short distance before settling down to watch him with beady eyes. The skyhook appeared undamaged, but most of the contents of his bag had been lost. His pistol and the Hotchkiss were long gone, the latter having been abandoned in Comstock's falling airship, the former lost in the flight from the Tower; and the Luteces' cedarwood box, all of his ammo, his last phial of salts, and all of the papers and photographs were likewise missing. He still had the Lady's voxophone and his badge, though; and, scattered in the sand about his feet, the majority of the contents of his wallet.

He did not, however, have Elizabeth.

Great.

A hazy memory of her running off in search of music returned to him, and he paused, listening. The sound of violins and harpsichord drifted over the sand, so Booker turned and headed off in what he hoped was the general direction of its source, praying she would still be there who knew how many hours later. He passed many beachgoers, none of whom had anything helpful to say in response to his inquiries; several stands vending sausages, spun sugar, and iced drinks; and a poster advertising rides on the _First Lady_ , the zeppelin he'd seen from the waterfront. If he could find out how to get ahold of a couple tickets, he thought, that could be their way back to New York.

But to do that, he had to find the girl.

After about a half-hour or so's worth of wandering the beach, he came upon Elizabeth at last, at the end of a long whitewashed pier that stretched out into the water. A board in the sand announced 'Dancing at Dusk', and the girl had taken to it with gusto. She was spinning about in the center of the promenade, laughing, her dark hair flying behind her as she twirled from hand to hand. A red-haired gentleman had her, and then a lady in an emerald-green walking gown, and then another man; she caught sight of Booker over her partner's shoulder as they waltzed past and gave him a grin of pure, wholehearted delight. The next break in the music saw her parted from her gentleman, and she reached out, grabbed Booker's hands, and dragged him towards the circle.

"Hello! Isn't this wonderful? Oh, come dance with me, Mr. DeWitt!"

Booker planted his feet and refused to move. "I don't dance."

Elizabeth gave him a look. "Come on! What could be better than this?" And she released his hands again to spin around, arms flung wide, gesturing rapturously at her surroundings. Booker sighed. The longer they stayed here, the more likely Comstock's frightfully loyal forces were to catch up with them... but how to convince her that they had to go?

The memory of her painting and the hole in the world came back to him with sudden clarity. "Uh... How 'bout Paris?"

That worked. "Paris!" She turned to face him, eyes shining with delight, but then her face fell. "I-I don't understand. How could we get there?"

Booker cast about for a feasible answer. "It's where that airship's goin'," he said with a burst of inspiration, pointing as the _First Lady_ buzzed past again, "but if you want to stay and dance, we could—"

"No, no, let's go! Come on, let's go right now!" And she grabbed his hand again and pulled him back down the boardwalk, following the _First Lady_.

 _The irony of that_ , he thought as he ambled along behind her, hands in his pockets. He found himself watching her as she darted about, though he was careful to glance away and feign disinterest whenever she turned back to look at him. She looked so much like her lady mother, but it was all wrong. When she laughed there was no coolness behind it, and kindness shone from her very core; he thought there could not be a manipulative bone in her body. She radiated innocence to the immediate universe, and though it was clear she was quite intelligent— _Principles of Theoretical Physics_ came to mind— her naïveté was both deep-seated and obvious. It was no wonder, really; she'd grown up locked away in a tower, looking down at the world but never able to reach it, with only books and a murderous mechanical beast for company. Everything fascinated her, and crossing the sandy crescent of Battleship Bay took time. Every few minutes the girl would get distracted by something new and run over, calling for Booker to follow: "Oh, what's that?" — "Come look at this, Mr. DeWitt!" — "What is that!"

Once she stopped, stared at the ground for several minutes, and then bent to pick up a stone. "Watch _this_ ," she said, and flung it out over the water; it bounced once, twice, three, four, six times before sinking out of sight. The girl looked as triumphant as if she'd just won a marathon. "Ha!"

Booker couldn't stop himself from quirking the corner of his mouth into a smile. Elizabeth beamed at him, found another stone, and skipped it again: three bounces. Then another, and another, looking just as delighted each time a stone skidded across the water.

"Y'know," Booker said, after the fifth or sixth time of this, "that airship's not gonna be there forever."

She shot him a pleading glance. "Just one more?"

He tried to say no, that they had to go now, that time wasted was time for Comstock and his bird to catch up with them. He tried to tell her that they didn't have the luxury of waiting any longer. He really, honestly tried.

"...Yeah, okay."

The smile she gave him when the little rock bounced seven times before disappearing was entirely worth it.

They moved on. A group of men in bathing costumes were hefting medicine balls in unison, and Elizabeth ran over to them, tried valiantly to lift a spare ball that had rolled away from the group, failed utterly, and fell backwards into the sand.

"Don't laugh!" she cried, scarlet from her ears to her collarbones. Booker obediently shut his mouth, but he couldn't stop himself from snickering quietly at her put-out expression. She didn't get distracted again, after that.

From the waterfront, they moved on to the promenade above Battleship Bay, coming out through a turnstile into a curio shop full of souvenirs: tin statues of Elizabeth's tower, posters of scenic areas of Columbia, and portraits of Father Comstock. Elizabeth stopped dead when she saw these, wrapping her arms tight around herself.

"Mr. DeWitt, look," she said. "Comstock. I've read about him. They say he can see the future."

 _I'll bet they didn't mention anything about what he's done to you_ , Booker thought, but all he said was, "They say a lot of things."

"I don't like his look," she said, and then jumped as the shopkeeper spoke up from behind the counter.

"Do you mislike the look of the Prophet, young lady, or his gaze?"

Elizabeth didn't answer him, just looked up at Booker with an unreadable expression. "Can we leave now?"

They left the gift shop, winding up a flight of stairs to emerge onto the promenade looking out over the beach. Immediately Elizabeth darted ahead, crying, "Oh, come look at this!"

Booker made to follow her, and then stopped dead in his tracks.

"The bird?"

"Or the cage?"

"These two again...?" He'd almost forgotten the twins even existed1. He wasn't eager to trust them, not after seeing their name on the signs in Elizabeth's tower, but then:

"Madame Lutece! Oh, no—"

"Hush, child. I've long since dispensed with being the Rosalind you knew. If anyone is to hear of your adventures, it shan't be from me."

"You mean that?"

"I am not given to dishonesty."

Booker snorted, and Madame Lutece gave him a critical look. "There is a difference, good sir, between not speaking the truth and speaking something that is untrue."

Elizabeth looked between them with an expression of utter bewilderment. "Do you know each other?"

"We do," said Madame Lutece.

"Or we have," added her brother.

"We will have known, I think; is this the one where he knows about—"

" _No_ ," the brother interjected, looking alarmed.

"Ah. Right, he chose 'tails' that time. We _will_ know him, I suppose is best. We'll be able to tell for certain as soon as he chooses the cage."

"Or the bird," said the brother.

"Ah, but nothing beats the cage."

Booker looked; each of the twins held a black velvet box, each containing a cameo displayed upon a plush cushion. Elizabeth picked the boxes up and regarded them critically.

"What do you think? They're both so beautiful."

"This game again? No, don't answer that," he said, when the Twins appeared to be about to speak. He pointed to a box without really looking; it seemed the best way to deal with Lutece was to shut his eyes and go along with it. "That one."

"I love it!" Elizabeth took the cameo and fastened it around her neck, pausing to admire her reflection in a shop window. Both Luteces looked her up and down in unison.

"I expected the bird," the brother said, sounding put-out.

"If you're going to be a sore loser, then I shan't do this again."

The Twins turned as one, ducked behind a taffy stand, and disappeared. Booker gave a half-hearted inspection of the stand; there was only a wall behind it, and no hiding place into which two human beings could reasonably fit. He hadn't really expected anything different.

"Let's go." He headed down the boardwalk, but stopped and looked back at Elizabeth's cry of alarm. He thought for a moment that she had been recognized at last; then he saw that she was leaning out over the railing, staring out at the city above. He followed her gaze to see that the clouds had parted; and there, bleeding black smoke from between its exposed iron ribs, was her tower.

One of its wings had been sheared entirely off, as had its head; there was a great cleft down its center from its neck to its navel. The half that still had its wing had tilted dangerously to the side, and looked close to breaking free as well. All around them, people were stopping, staring, even sobbing outright.

"Fitzroy," Booker heard a man say. "It has to be! No-one else would do such a thing."

"Why didn't the Prophet foresee this?" someone else cried.

Booker went over to where Elizabeth stood frozen, clutching the railing, and hovered there for a moment, painfully unsure of what he was supposed to do.

"Are you all right?"

"It was my home," she said, so quietly he had to lean down to hear her. "It was my prison, but it was my home. It was all I ever knew."

Booker had never been particularly good at comforting someone. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "Hey. It's gonna be okay."

Elizabeth turned to smile up at him, and he snatched his hand from her shoulder; his palm felt as if it had suddenly caught fire.

"Yes," she said.

He coughed, glanced away, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Let's keep moving, before they put two'n two together and figure out who we are."

Elizabeth followed him without hesitation. There were many signs pointing them in the direction of the _First Lady_ 's aerodrome, but when they got to the byway that would let them off the boardwalk and into the rest of Battleship Bay, they found it blocked off by a cluster of sawhorses. Policemen were searching bags, holding up posters announcing that the False Shepherd was ' _WANTED_ _— P_ _referably Dead!_ '

"Damn it." Booker swore under his breath; they sure weren't getting through that way, even if the posters still claimed he was either 'a mulatto dwarf, or a Frenchman with a missing left eye'. He didn't know if there was another way out of the park, and if Comstock's police were already here, he didn't think they were going to have time to find out.

"Mr. DeWitt! Over here!"

"What?" Booker snapped, irritated at having his train of thought forcibly derailed. Elizabeth jumped at his harsh tone and gave him a reproachful stare. "S-sorry. What?" he said, a touch more gently. Elizabeth pointed. There was a door at the far end of the entry hall, marked with a sign that said ' _Service Entrance. Keep Locked During Business Hours_.'

Booker shot a surreptitious glance back at the crowd of policemen. They were occupied with a man who was quite clearly extremely drunk, and was shouting at them about the person called Fitzroy, and their incompetence in catching her.

"Great," he told her, and she inflated visibly. "Let's go, quick."

But when he tried it, the service door was locked. Booker swore again. Trust officials in Columbia to be better about security than New Yorkers, he thought angrily; this must be the first time he'd actually seen a "keep locked" sign heeded.

"Let me," Elizabeth whispered, ducking under his elbow to crouch before the door.

"Elizabeth, there's no point, it's locked, we should—"

But the girl was not listening to him. She pulled a pair of pins from her hair, letting a long strand of it fall down in front of her face, and folded one of them open.

"What are you doing—?"

She glared at him. "You're a roguish type!" she hissed. "What does it _look like_?" She gave the door a pointed shove, and it swung open. Booker stared at her speechlessly for a moment, and then shuttled them both through before the nearby officers could look over and see them.

"Where did you learn to pick locks?" he demanded as soon as the door was shut safely behind them.

Elizabeth smirked at him. "Trapped in a tower with nothing but books and spare time? You would be surprised by what I know how to do." And she stalked off down the hall, still with that smug, insufferable little smile on her face. Booker stared after her with a mixture of appreciation, shock, and utter indignation. She was _mocking_ him, the– the little _minx_! Then he realized she wasn't waiting for him, and hurried to catch up with her. The service door had let out into a long, narrow ticket-taker's office, lined with desks and typewriters and filing cabinets. Booker stopped to riffle through the various compartments, looking for a map, unsold tickets for the _First Lady_ , anything that could help them. No tickets were forthcoming, but he found a colored map of Battleship Bay, a pamphlet advertising vigors that came with a free phial of salts, and, nestled together in the same drawer, a volcanic pistol, a box of .38 cartridges, and the key to the till.

When Booker made strategic use of the latter, Elizabeth gave him a look. "Aren't _we_ the well-to-do sort."

He gave her a look right back. "I take it that means your idea of the 'roguish type' don't extend to petty thievery, then."

She made a noise halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "At least you're upfront about it."

Booker grinned wryly at her. "C'mon," he said. "We've got a ways to go yet."

The ticket-master's office exited into a narrow, moldering service corridor. High, grimy windows provided the only light, and the whitewashed wood was stained with water damage. A sign on the wall said, ' _Respect Your Betters! Keep out of sight and speak only when spoken to!_ ' Below it was a dented, broken medical automaton, its wares spilling out onto the warped wooden floorboards. Elizabeth crouched before it, scuffing through the scattered goods. She looked up and frowned critically when Booker came to hover over her shoulder.

"You look terrible."

"Gee, thanks."

"Hush. Let me see if there's not something here that can help you." She rattled around some more, found a roll of gauze and a little red-black bottle, and stood. "Let me see your wrist."

"I'm _fine_ —"

Her stare could've cut glass. Booker relented, offering her his left hand and trying not to wince at the throb of pain the motion caused. Elizabeth squeaked at the sight of the mottled-purple skin, but didn't pull away. She handed him the packet of bandages and the stoppered bottle, and then, frowning in concentration, placed her hands over his and pressed down on his shattered wrist. He hissed between his teeth as the pain flared again, but she only furrowed her brow and then, with one quick motion, pulled her hands apart.

Everything shuddered briefly. Booker stared. The wound was gone, as was the pain, and every other hurt he had obtained in his flight from the raffle square all that time ago.

"Wh– _how did you do that?_ "

Elizabeth shook her head, raising a hand to her brow. Booker saw that she was shaking, and sweat had beaded on her forehead.

"Later."

"Yeah, okay. Now it's you who don't look so good."

She smiled weakly. "I'll be fine. It happens all the time."

"So... this magical healing hoodoo, that's something you do on a, uh, regular basis?"

"Of course. Obviously." Her voice was stronger now, and though her hands still trembled, there was a bit more color in her face. "Come on. Let's keep moving."

The service corridor ended at a door which led, according to the sign above it, to the Battleship Bay Arcade; before they could reach it, however, they were hailed by a voice, emanating from an offshoot of the hall.

"Hey! Mister! Over here!"

In an alcove that seemed to be devoted mainly to storage, there sat a couple: a pale, malnourished man with a fading black eye, and a small dark woman, leaning her head on his shoulder. They looked familiar, but where–?

"The raffle," Booker said, realizing. Elizabeth looked at him questioningly; he waved her away, mouthing, ' _Later_.'

"You saved our lives," said the man. "We wouldn't've gotten away without you. "

The woman gave him a weary but earnest smile. "Daisy always said someone like you would come along."

"Wha– who's Daisy?" The name was familiar, he thought, but he didn't know anybody named Daisy, did he? Had she been a dance-hall girl? How'd she come to Columbia if—

The world faded in and out of focus– he saw hard jet eyes and a wicked smile—

"Here."

"–Huh?" Booker snapped back to reality to see the woman offering him a black enamel box. Both she and Elizabeth were staring at him with some concern; he took it quickly, to cover his confusion, and opened it. Inside was a coil of fine red silk, and atop it a pin in the fashion of a burning tree.

"Take it," said the woman. "I'm sorry we don't got more t'offer you, truly. But if ever you find yourself in need of aid, they'll know you speak with the people's voice, and you'll have it."

"What?" Booker said. The woman just smiled and stepped backwards, retreating into the shadows of the little alcove.

"Daisy always knew you'd come," she said.

As soon as they had taken their leave, Booker stopped, so suddenly that Elizabeth nearly walked right into him.

"Who's Daisy?" he said aloud into the empty air. When he glanced down at the girl as if hoping she'd have all the answers, she shrugged, looking as confused as he felt.

"I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea. Are you all right, Mr. DeWitt? You seemed to go blank for a moment and sort of... started bleeding."

"What?" Booker raised a hand to his face, and his fingertips came away red. He hastily wiped the blood away, irritated and alarmed and a whole lot of other things that he didn't quite understand. "I– I dunno. Let's get out of here, 'fore something worse happens."

"...Yeah."

* * *

The arcade at Battleship Bay was thronged with people. There were shops and stands and dioramas; jazzy music filtered through mounted speakers, interspersed by tips on "how to tell if your maid has fallen in with the Vox Populi!", whatever _that_ was. The center of the main hall was lined with little mechanical boxes that looked like Punch-and-Judy shows, but which were labeled ' _Duke and Dimwit_ ' and seemed to spill Columbian propaganda tailored specifically for children. Elizabeth bounced up and down when she discovered there was a new one; Booker had to hook a finger into the back of her collar and pull her away before she could be lost to him entirely. She quickly escaped him again, though, to marvel at a spun sugar vendor, who offered her a paper cone of the stuff with a gallant flourish.

"Here you are, Miss! Free for the most beautiful girl in Columbia," he said grandly, and Elizabeth blushed and giggled and proceeded to prod experimentally at the spun sugar, clearly unsure of what to do with it.

"I can't believe how much I've missed," she said, when she caught Booker watching her. "There's so much that I don't know about."

And yet there was plenty that she did know. She spouted facts about the city's history and the construction of Battleship Bay, which she'd learned, he found upon inquiring, "From one of the books I threw at you; they also served passing well for reading." A young woman in a fawn driving coat asked Booker sweetly for the time, but before he could mutter something at her and be on his way, Elizabeth had appeared at his side, looped her arm through his, and said, just as sweetly, "It's just past seven-thirty."

The woman's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Oh. Thank you."

Elizabeth stuck her tongue out at the other girl's retreating back. Booker grinned down at her, thoroughly amused.

"Shot down, huh?"

"Well, I can't have my stalwart savior getting distracted before we even leave for Paris, can I?"

Booker felt a sudden pang of guilt, and quickly shoved it aside. "Hey, I ain't exactly a knight in shining armor."

"No," Elizabeth agreed, smiling, "but you're the closest I've got."

She did not remove her arm from his until they had reached the end of the arcade, when she slipped free to study the map that had been posted in front of the turnstiles. Her sudden absence gave Booker pause; he'd been enjoying the contact. It'd been a long time since he'd had a real friend.

 _No, no! You're giving her over to Samuels, remember? Don't get attached to her!_ He shook his head, chastising himself for even thinking it. This was just a job, he had to remember that. _Bring back the girl, and wipe away the debt_. Nothing more, nothing less.

Only... Samuels had never said he was going to keep her, only that he wanted to talk to her, see if he could get her on his side. And after that... well, Booker always had sort of wanted to see where all the rage about Paris came from. Nobody said he had to keep the girl once the job was done, but, despite everything that had happened, he _missed_ Anna. Was it so bad that part of him almost hoped Elizabeth would take her place?

"Mr. DeWitt?"

"Wha–?" He looked down to see Elizabeth regarding him with some concern.

She ran her fingers over the burnished gold cage at her throat. "You were staring at me."

"Sorry. Just thinking."

"About?"

So, she couldn't tell when someone was loath to talk. Booker sighed. "You just remind me of someone is all."

"Oh." She paused, shifted from foot to foot awkwardly. "Is that good?"

Booker was not inclined to be truthful. "I'm not sure yet," he said. So much for not being truthful. He gave her a rueful smile, painfully aware of the fact that he was going a bit red. "We, uh. Still have an airship to catch, you know."

The clumsy subject change worked better than he could have hoped; Elizabeth perked up, practically glowing as wide smile spread across her face.

"Paris!" she cried happily.

"Paris." Booker offered her his arm again, and she took it easily, beaming at the prospect of seeing the City of Lights. They left the arcade, just as the guard called out that the park was closing, and headed up through the turnstiles towards the terminal that would take them to Soldiers' Field and the _First Lady_.

"Annabelle? Is that you?"

Booker stopped dead. He didn't notice the tension in his fingers until Elizabeth squirmed away from him, crying, "Ow, you're hurting me! What's wrong?"

He turned. A young fair-haired woman in a green uniform was staring at them, or rather, staring at Elizabeth.

"Annabelle, it's me, Esther! Don't you remember me?"

Elizabeth laughed nervously. "Oh, no, I, I'm not Annabelle. M-my name's Elizabeth."

This seemed to confuse the girl deeply. She swayed on her feet as if drunk, or exhausted past the point of coherence. "You're… n-not Annabelle?" Booker tried not to twitch every time she said the name. "Elizabeth, that's... that's a lovely name..." And the young woman wandered off, back towards the turnstile, still swaying slightly.

Elizabeth looked at Booker. Booker looked at Elizabeth.

"Was it just me," he said, "or did it look like she was bleeding to you?"

"Yes," Elizabeth said. "You're right, her nose was bleeding. The same way yours did when you asked me who Daisy was. I've still no idea about that, by the way."

Booker shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. "There is something very wrong with this town."

"You're telling me." Elizabeth grabbed his arm again and began tugging him up the stairs. "We'll soon be free of it, though. Come on! The office is just through here, we're almost there!"

She practically dragged him up the last flight of stairs to the terminal, taking the steps two at a time and bouncing giddily. A man was playing the fiddle about halfway down the hall, sad and sweet, but other than that, the terminal was very quiet.

Unsettlingly quiet, actually. He was getting a bad feeling about this. There had been hundreds of people in Battleship Bay – on the sand, on the boardwalk, in the arcade – but here there were only a few men and women, talking in hushed voices and shooting Booker and Elizabeth furtive glances as they passed. A man in a bowler hat leaned against the wall next to the office, picking his teeth with a bowie knife. The hallway adjacent to the terminal had been blocked off by a high slatted metal grate, despite being the only apparent way out of the park. The ticket-master was speaking rapidly into the receiver of a telephone, and glanced up only briefly when they stopped at the window before hunching away and continuing his conversation at an even more hushed and hurried pace. Booker gently ushered Elizabeth behind him, ignoring her confused protests. He was getting a _very_ bad feeling about this.

"...Carrying something. He's with her," the ticket-master was saying. "How do you want to proceed?"

Something was very wrong here. "Excuse me," Booker said coolly, drumming the fingers of one hand on the countertop and groping in his bag for the newfound pistol with the other. He really hoped he wouldn't have to use it – he was sure Elizabeth would just _love_ it if he started shooting up the place – but as far as obvious traps went, this one was more blatant than most.

The ticket-master barely spared him a glance. "Yeah, just a minute, friend," he said. Then, to the person on the other end of the line: "I'll ring you back once the matter's in hand. Got it. Send in the bird."

Bird.

Elizabeth's voice floated back to him, terrified and desperate: _"It's his job to keep me locked up in here!"_

Well, there went all hope for a peaceful resolution. As soon as the ticket-master turned round to face him again, Booker reached through the window, grabbed the man by the hair, and slammed his head into the corner of the desk as hard as he could. There was a wet _crunch_ ,and the ticket-master reeled backwards and collapsed, his forehead an ugly, bloody trench.

Elizabeth screamed. Booker whirled around, ready to come to her aid, but it was he that she was stumbling away from, pale and panicked.

"Get away from me!" she shouted at him, and then turned and ran— straight into the clutches of the man in the bowler hat. She shrieked again and fought against him, but he was a good foot and-a-half taller than her, and began dragging her away, unmindful of her vehement kicking and biting. Booker leapt forwards to grab Elizabeth's captor by the shoulder, fitting his free hand into the skyhook as he did; the hooks whirled to life, and he rammed them between the other man's shoulder blades with all his strength. The man shuddered and jerked and gurgled as the serrated hooks erupted out through his chest, and Elizabeth broke free of his grasp with a strangled, retching sob. Before Booker could try and speak to her, she sprinted for the exit, only to be caught again by the fiddler. He had abandoned the violin in exchange for a filigreed shotgun, and he seized Elizabeth's arm as she ran by; Booker grabbed for his own gun, but before he could do anything, the girl had rammed her knee upwards into her captor's groin and then punched him in the throat with her free hand. The man went down, wheezing, and Elizabeth bounded over him and made it to the fenced-off hallway, squeezing through the bars and disappearing before Booker could react. He cursed and chased after her, but before he could figure out a way to get the grate open, several policemen appeared behind it and opened fire.

Swearing, he leapt backwards and flung out a hand, sending crows exploding everywhere. The officers shouted and beat at them ineffectually, but by the time they got the grate open, Booker had gathered himself enough to make it to the relative cover of the space between two benches. He snapped his fingers and officers and birds alike ignited, screaming as a thick, sticky, molten paste soaked into clothes and feathers and skin. He ducked past their writhing forms, pausing only to snatch up the incapacitated fiddler's fallen shotgun. Then he ran from the terminal, clattering down the hallway and shouting for Elizabeth.

He found her at the gondola station, heaving desperately at the trolley's controls, and doubled his pace.

"Elizabeth, would you just _wait_!"

"Get away from me, you—!" Elizabeth reeled away from him, pressing herself into the corner of the cabin and refusing to look at him. Booker yanked at the controls before she could make another escape attempt, only turning to her once the gondola was moving safely along its rails.

"Now. Can we just talk about this for a minute?"

"You killed those people," Elizabeth whispered. Then, louder, "You _killed_ those _people_! You're a _monster_!" She flung herself at him, slamming into his chest with both her hands and sending him stumbling back against the cabin wall. Then she turned, crossed her arms, and stared determinedly out the gondola window at the waters of the approaching island rushing by.

Booker sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "What did you think was going to happen? Hm?"

"…Huh?"

"Do you understand the expense these people went through to keep you locked up in that tower? You think folks like that are, are just gonna let you walk away? You are an _investment_ to them."

Elizabeth hugged herself and stared at the ground, looking miserable. Booker felt a pang of guilt; he hadn't meant to lecture her, but there was no way this job was getting done if the girl was going to try to escape him every time he turned the other way. "Look, I—"

"What do they want from me?"

"—What?"

"What do they want from me? Why all of, all of _this_?"

Booker shook his head. "I dunno," he said heavily. "But it's probably going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better."

Elizabeth clenched and unclenched her fists, still staring at the ground. Finally she looked up and met his eyes.

"I suppose I'd best get used to it," she said. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of blood that she either didn't notice or didn't care about. Booker felt an aberrant stab of alarm, but it was not her blood; if he had to guess, he'd say it had belonged to the man with the bowler hat. Then she sat down on the lip of the cabin window and stayed there, staring at the ground, her eyelids dropping lower and lower. By the time the gondola lurched to a halt several minutes later, she was asleep.

Booker looked her up and down. She was just a kid, wasn't she? They'd been moving fast all day, and, come to think of it, the only thing he'd seen her eat was the candy at the arcade. How often did seventeen-year-olds need to be fed2? He should probably find her something to eat, and a few hours' sleep wouldn't hurt either of them. The posters for the _First Lady_ had been all over; no doubt it made daily rounds. Paris could wait until tomorrow.

Gently, Booker shook Elizabeth's shoulder, and she jerked awake with a start, her head thudding back against the glass.

"Wha, what? Oh! I'm sorry," she said, looking sheepish.

"Don't be," said Booker. "You done nothing wrong. Can't sleep here, though, it's just going back to the bay, and to the people that want us done harm."

"Okay." To her credit, Elizabeth stood immediately, stiff and determined. There were dark shadows under her eyes, he noticed; how long had those been there?

"Come on," he said. "Let's find us a place to lay low for the night."

The girl made a valiant effort to hide a yawn, and failed utterly. "What about Paris?"

"Hey, Paris has stood for a thousand years, it'll wait a few hours more. If we don't catch the _First Lady_ , I'll find us another airship to steal, how about that?"

"That sounds good," she said faintly, rubbing at her eyes. She was fading fast; how had he not noticed? She'd been flung from the Tower same as him, and she'd not lagged or complained once the whole day. Booker sighed. How had he started to care this much about the welfare of a damn kid, and after knowing her for all of a single day? _Shit_.

"It's not likely there'll be an inn that'll want to put us up, even if they don't recognize us," he said aloud, trying to smother this disturbing revelation. "How d'you feel about adding breaking and entering to our list of transgressions against the good people of Columbia?"

"Hooray," Elizabeth said, but her exhaustion took the bite out of her sarcasm. "More crime."

"That's how I like to look at it." Booker smiled at her, and she rubbed her eyes again and returned his grin. "Come on, then. Miles to go before we sleep, and all that."

He offered her his arm, and she took it, leaning most of her weight on him. He knew it was more out of an effort to keep upright than anything else, but a part of him still felt rather flattered. By the time they made it to the entrance of Soldiers' Field, he was practically carrying her. Forget getting into the district, then; there were promenades and whitewashed verandas and shaded porches all along the edge of the island. One of them was bound to be unoccupied, so rather than heading into the island proper, he led Elizabeth up a broad flight of stairs, over the eagle's-head entrance to the fair, and through an archway into the striped awnings and marble columns of the resort town.

It did not take long to find a townhouse that was unoccupied; most of them appeared to be summer homes, rented out to the wealthy patrons of Columbia in the warmer months. He kept a lookout while Elizabeth fumbled with the lock, mildly miffed that the girl was a defter lockpick than him, and then they were inside. Booker led the way through the shadowy house, pistol at the ready, but they found no-one. The occupants had either gone away for the holiday or had not yet arrived, as the place was well-stocked, but unoccupied, and completely dark; it appeared to have no electrical lights, only lamps that he lit with the tips of his fingers.

Elizabeth stuck her tongue out at him. "Show-off."

"Hey, _you_ can open holes to Paris and fix broken bones," he said, shooting her a look.

"Barely," said Elizabeth, flopping down on the plush sitting-room sofa with a sigh. "They never stay open long enough for me to go through."

"Well, uh." Booker wasn't entirely sure how to console her. _'I'm sorry your impossible, slightly terrifying power doesn't work the way you want it to'_? "Practice makes perfect, right?"

"I guess." She sighed, blew a strand of hair out of her face. There was still dried blood smeared on her cheek. Booker found himself suddenly taken by the urge to reach out and wipe it away, and he hastily busied himself with checking all the cupboards and closets in the house for anything they might be able to use, desperate for a distraction. What the hell was this? Was there something wrong with him? Was he _insane_?

_She's half your age, asshole!_

And it didn't even matter. Booker slammed the door of the linen cupboard into which he'd been staring blankly for the past five minutes, prompting an alarmed cry from the other room.

"What's wrong, Mr. DeWitt? Did something happen?"

"No! —No," Booker called back, hurrying to return to the parlor. Elizabeth blinked up at him from the couch. It was clear she had fallen asleep again. "I found something you might like, though."

"Is it an airship to Paris?"

"Not quite," he said. "The place doesn't have electricity, but it does have running water and an icebox. Here," he added, tossing her an orange.

"A _bath_ — thank God! I feel like I've been dipped in mud and left to dry."

"You sorta look it, too."

"Oh, thanks." Elizabeth stood, rubbing her back, and disappeared up the stairs. Moments later, there was a series of loud metallic groans and clanks, and then the sound of running water. It appeared that the girl was going to be occupied for some time, so Booker began his second round of the townhouse, a bottle of Biela 1846 he'd filched from the pantry in one hand, sticky fire in the other. He smeared the molten paste all along the windowsills and doorframes, where it glowed and smoldered but did not scorch the wood. Satisfied that any intruders or potential vacationers who came calling would be thus deterred, he returned once more to the upstairs of the house.

He was halfway up the stairs when a loud shatteringsound came from above. He froze only for a moment, and then sprinted the rest of the way to the landing and paused, cocking his pistol and listening. The washroom was still shut, and he could hear the sound of water, but no light came from the crack beneath the door. A cursory glance revealed she was not in the dressing-room or the house's only bedchamber, and there was no place else she could be.

" _Elizabeth_!"

No answer. Booker rapped sharply on the bathroom door: nothing. "Hey, Elizabeth, you all right in there?"

Still nothing. He knocked again, more insistently. What if she'd fallen asleep again? And what had been the cause of that crash? If she drowned— he wouldn't get paid if she was dead. Yeah, of course. Samuels would be livid, _that_ was it. "All right, last chance. I'm coming in, and I'd appreciate it if you weren't drowned."

The room was dark when he entered; the light from the hall glittered faintly on the broken glass of the lantern that had been knocked from beside the sink. Booker pushed the door open further to find Elizabeth sitting in the huge copper washtub, fully clothed and shivering as the water poured over her, holding her open palms in front of her and staring emptily into space. Her fingertips were red; it appeared she had discovered her bloodied face at last.

Booker quickly put away his pistol, fetched the lamp from the hall, and set it on the countertop before going over to sit gingerly upon the edge of the basin.

"Hey. You okay?"

She turned to face him, but her eyes were unfocused, fixing on a point just above his left shoulder. When she spoke, it was in barely more than a shaky whisper. "'Will all great Neptune's ocean not wash this blood clean from my hands?'"

Ah, _shit_. He should've expected this. "Maybe not, but they're not gonna turn the whole sea red neither." That got her to focus on him, a faint expression of surprise on her face. Booker smirked at her. "Yes, I've read a poem. Try not to faint."

Not quite a smile, but at least she didn't look quite so dead-eyed as a moment ago. It was a start. "You doin' okay?"

"It was in my _hair_ ," she said wretchedly, shuddering with revulsion. It was still better than that blank emptiness, though. Booker did his best to look kindly and sympathetic6.

"You want some help?"

Elizabeth nodded. Forcing himself not to think too hard about what he was doing, Booker fetched a towel from the washstand and knelt to help her clean the blood and dirt from her face and hands. It _was_ in her hair, and caked under her fingernails and crusted across her forehead, but to his relief none of it turned out to be hers. Her only apparent injury was a large, pale bruise on her forearm where she'd been grabbed, but other than that she seemed more or less unharmed.

By the time he was done, the bathwater had turned a pale, filmy pink, and the towel was ruined, but Elizabeth had stopped shaking and looked a good deal more lively. She shooed him out shortly thereafter, reappearing in a nightdress which must have belonged to the lady of the house, as it was several inches too large for her and dragged upon the ground. She took care to lay her sodden clothes out to dry; then, without another word to Booker, she padded into the bedroom, flung herself face-first into the feather pillows, and had fallen asleep within seconds.

He looked at her for a moment, and decided it wasn't worth it. There was a large armchair in the bedchamber that looked comfortable enough. Booker dropped into it wearily, laid the shotgun across his knees, and resigned himself to a restless and troubled sleep.

* * *

1\. You had too, hadn't you? Never fear; our presence is inescapable. Delaying it is merely delaying the inevitable.

2\. I suppose we should all be thankful that Booker never truly had the chance to become a parent; I'm not sure which iteration of him would be the worst at raising a child3.

3\. Well, there is that universe with Anna and4—

4\. No, _wait!_ That's still a spoiler for five chapters, remember5?

5\. Oh, yes. Thank you, brother; that would've been disastrous.

6\. It was a valiant effort to be sure; still, I'm surprised the girl didn't burst out laughing7.

7\. Oh, let him be. Can't you see he's trying to have a Moment? And at least he's making an effort— I'd count that as a marked improvement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always bugs me that Elizabeth doesn't react to the Luteces in any way besides mild surprise, since Constance Field's voxophone at the raffle states, and I quote, that "only you [Rosalind] are allowed to visit the girl in the tower", which implies that Beth should recognize Rosalind at least. Unless that's just propaganda? Someone had to teach her to read, though, and somehow I doubt that it was the Prophet.
> 
> I can't be the only one who picked the cage pendant on the boardwalk, right? ...Right? *Cricket Noises*
> 
> Also, I'd like to take a moment to apologize for my inability to fluff. Clearly I am terrible at it and I should be ashamed of myself. I'M NOT, THOUGH :B
> 
> And yes, that last scene is, in fact, blatantly stolen from ahem, lovingly inspired by one of my favorite films. If you caught it, congratulations, you have good taste; if not, the only hint I will give you is that your lack of exposure has left me shaken, but not stirred.
> 
> Coming up next: **And Damned be He Who First Cries, 'Hold, Enough'!** , because we obviously haven't had enough Gratuitous Shakespeare in the story yet.


	6. And Damned be He Who First Cries, "Hold, Enough"!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAUGH I AM A TERRIBLE PERSON I'M SO SORRY ORZ /lies facedown on floor ghdkslgghrgh did you know that the transition from college to Adult Life will eat away ALL OF YOUR TIME because I didn't and guhhhhhh
> 
> Ok I'm done making excuses here's the story merry christmas pls forgive me
> 
> (by way of apology, have another 20-page chapter, plus bonus Discworld shout-outs because Discworld is ALWAYS RELEVANT. ALWAYS.

 

  
_"The real hero is always a hero  
_ _by mistake; he dreams of being an honest coward  
_ _like everybody else."_  
—Umberto Eco

  
**CHAPTER SIX:** And Damned Be He Who First Cries, 'Hold, Enough!'

JULY 9, 1912

He was getting pretty good at this dreaming business, he thought. Wake up in New York, open the door, bombs are falling, it's probably the Twins' fault— only Elizabeth was there this time, sitting on the dresser with her knees pulled up to her chest. She was covered in blood – not her own, he knew, in the way that one does in dreams – clutching a pair of gory scissors so tightly her knuckles were white. He could hear her singing, softly, but when he went over to her, her eyes were white and old and dead. Then the bombs came down with a thunderous roar, and inside the blinding light they brought, he thought he heard a child crying.

Booker woke with a start and kicked out, sending the fallen shotgun skidding across the hardwood floor, and jerked to his feet. His head felt like several porcupines had been using it for a nest, and the taste in his mouth wasn't much better. Habit made him reach for a flask that wasn't at his belt, but the cold sudden stop in his chest when he looked up to see the duvet crumpled on the floor and Elizabeth gone from the bedroom was plenty more effective at waking him up. He snatched up the shotgun and clattered out of the chamber and down the stairs, trying to curb his mounting panic, only to skid to a halt when he saw the girl sitting at the parlor table. She was eating a buttered roll and poring over a folded newspaper, and looked entirely unharmed.

Booker glared at her. "Don't  _do_ that!"

She jumped and stared up at him, her mouth curving into an alarmed frown as she caught sight of his expression. "Do what?"

He felt a sudden wave of embarrassment. What exactly had he expected, anyways? "Y'know," he muttered, glancing away. "Disappear without telling me. Have you been out? Why didn't you wake me?"

Elizabeth gave him a calm look, clearly over her initial alarm. "I'm more than capable of fending for myself for ten minutes, Mr. DeWitt."

He rubbed at the back of his neck, quite aware that it was becoming a nervous tic. "It's," he said. "It's just Booker."

Her expression had by this point become quite unreadable. "Booker," she repeated slowly. "All right. I think I can manage that. Now did you want breakfast, or would you like to berate me some more first?"

"I'm good on the berating front, but thanks."

That got a smile out of her. She stood, brushing down her skirt, and offered him a package of brown paper. He took it and found it contained some sort of pastry, crusted with nuts and still warm.

"Where did you get this?"

"I borrowed some money from your bag and went to the bakery just inside the arcade," said Elizabeth innocently. Booker glared at her some more for good measure, and then sighed.

"They're still looking for us," he said, trying to sound reproachful and only half-managing.

"And they didn't find us, did they?"

"That's not the point," he grumbled.

"It says here they're looking for the Lamb of Columbia and a, and I quote, 'mulatto dwarf with a missing left eye'," Elizabeth said, gesturing with the newspaper. "Somehow I doubt we're in any real danger of being spotted."

"Yeah, well, don't get cocky. Next thing you know they'll be arresting us for breaking and entering."

"Why do they call me the 'Lamb of Columbia'?" she asked, as if he hadn't spoken, and he she hadn't come to the same conclusion about her parentage that he had, he wasn't going to be the one to break it to her. But what sort of explanation could he even offer? He'd told her enough lies already.

"Uh," he said. "Must be something to do with why they had you locked up in that tower, I expect."

To his immense relief, she seemed to accept this explanation without hesitation. "And you the 'False Shepherd'," she added. "That one, at least, I think I get."

"Yeah, let's  _not_ call each other that."

"Suits me." Elizabeth dropped the paper on the table and turned to Booker with a smile. "Shall we go, False Shepherd?"

He glowered down at her good-naturedly. "What did I  _just_  say?"

Elizabeth slung his bag over her shoulder and looped her free arm through his, her grin now decidedly mischievous.

"Sorry. I couldn't resist."

* * *

The Columbian morning dawned dazzlingly bright, but despite the sun high in a cloudless sky, the air was quite cold. As they made their way out of the resort town and towards Soldiers' Field, a faint breeze blew between the townhouses, scattering rose petals and the occasional lost pamphlet advertising vigors or the delights of the arcade. The town itself was nearly deserted; there were a few couples taking early-morning strolls along the edge of the island, but other than that they saw no-one. A sleepy guard waved them through the turnstile into Soldiers' Field with barely more than a passing glance; the great entry hall beyond was entirely deserted. Tinny music was playing faintly from somewhere, and a big mechanical eagle flapped its wings in the center of the room. There were displays and dioramas of the history and layout of the island, and stands and counters with slatted metal grates pulled over them for the night. They presented a sort of forced, deranged jolliness that, combined with the emptiness of the area, was oddly unsettling. Booker and Elizabeth hurried across the hall towards the gate on the far side, but as they approached, there was a massive crackling sound and a burst of blue-white light, and the gate slammed shut.

Elizabeth stumbled back with a yelp. "What just happened?"

Booker cast about for a likely explanation, and a red box beside the gate caught his eye. Above it was a poster advertising ' _Shock Jockey! Who Needs the Power Company?!_ '

_You do, apparently,_ Booker thought, grumbling as he pulled the box open to peer inside. There was a shattered purple crystal, nestled into a copper cradle, and not much else; when he prodded at it, it fuzzed gray around the edges and tingled against his fingers. Another vigor. Great.

"'Shock Jockey'?" Elizabeth read, peering up at the poster with narrowed eyes.

"Some fool's alternative to electricity, no doubt. Look around, see if they don't keep any nearby."

"Right."

They circled the chamber, but found nothing; Elizabeth picked the door to the administrator's office, but they found nothing there either, at least by way of vigors. There was a logbook of the  _First Lady_ 's departure times, and, propped in the corner, an 1888 Trapdoor Springfield carbine. Booker went straight for it and picked it up, felt the weight of it in his hands, sighted down the barrel. It had one clip of three cartridges loaded already, but there were no others to be found; still, if these guns were standard issue here, that wouldn't be a problem. Either way, he felt worlds better with the familiar old rifle in his hands. A snatch of memory came to him as he ran his fingers over the cool metal: a vast field of snow and a stone-gray sky, and swift silver Folly coursing hard over the frozen earth; but he pushed this aside. He knew how it ended.

He turned to Elizabeth, who was watching him with a curious expression. "Let's get out of here before someone catches us."

"What happens if someone does?"

He paused, glanced at her cockeyed. "We tell them we got lost looking for the bathroom."

She stared at him, unable to tell if he was joking. "And… that works?"

"Not usually, no," he said cheerfully1, and beckoned her on.

They found no Shock Jockey in the Soldiers' Field arcade, and Booker ended up having to lever the gate open enough for he and Elizabeth to duck through, but they weren't caught either, so he counted it as a victory. They got some odd looks from the people on the other side, but apart from that, their presence hardly went noticed at all. It helped that Soldiers' Field was a good deal more crowded than the resort around it had been; people sat on benches in the sunshine or under bright colorful umbrellas outside restaurants and cafés, having coffee and going about their daily business. They paid no attention to the wary-looking Pinkerton and wide-eyed runaway in their midst.

Elizabeth, on the other hand, paid a good deal of attention to all of them. She was all questions, darting to one side to inspect a display, or leaning so far out over the rail of the island that Booker feared she would fall. She grabbed his hand and dragged him to a shop to make him buy her an ice cream, which she'd never had before; then into a toy shop, where her panicked shriek prompted him to come running, only to find that a figure of her mechanical bird-monster had popped out at her on a spring. She bounced and pointed when the  _First Lady_ roared overhead on its way to the aerodrome, and for ten minutes afterwards he could not get her to speak of anything other than Paris.

All that was all right. It was when she started asking questions about him that Booker began to have a problem.

"Mr. De—  _Booker_ , sorry— what exactly do you do, anyways?"

"I, uh, I was a detective. With the Pinkertons."

"A  _detective_! How many mysteries did you solve?"

"It wasn't quite like that. Mostly they paid me to take care of strike breakers, an', y'know."

She gave him a funny look at that, but didn't press the issue. A few minutes later, she asked, entirely apropos of nothing, "So, do you like gardens, Mr. DeWitt?"

"They look down on gardens in my part of town."

She gave him that look again, like she had no idea whether or not to take him seriously. "What part of town is  _that_?"

He could've tried to explain what a pun was to her, but this was so much more amusing. "The part with no gardens," he said, and walked on, leaving her staring at him in bewilderment until she had to trot and catch up.

"What do the letters on your hand stand for?"

He hesitated for only a moment; if she knew… But there was no way. Anna had been gone from him for years by the time Elizabeth was born. He rubbed his thumb over the scars, dug his fingernails into his palm until it ached.

"It's… it's the name of the last person I swore I'd ever hurt," he finally said quietly.

She grew pensive; he could tell she was thinking about the gondola station. "But you didn't keep that promise," she said, and it wasn't a question.

"No."

They moved on. Elizabeth remained subdued only for a few minutes before she resumed pelting him with questions, though she took care not to mention his brand again. She asked about life in New York, and the cases he'd solved; these, he answered readily enough, though he left quite a few details out.

And then, in a tone that was just a bit too casual, she asked, "So… is there a woman in your life, Mr. DeWitt?"

He hunched inside his coat and glanced away. "There was."

Elizabeth did not take the hint. She didn't even pick it up, turn it over, and set it aside. "But not anymore?"

"No."

"What happened to her?"

He sighed and rubbed at his forehead. She didn't mean any harm; he had to remember that. Not  _everyone_ did things just to rile him, after all3. "She died."

The hint continued to remain untaken. "How?"

What was he supposed to say? That he'd killed her? That she'd killed  _herself_ , and it was all his fault? That maybe if he'd tried harder, she wouldn't have done it, wouldn't have fallen to  _Comstock_ for absolution—? Which would be worse, he wondered?

"I don't know," he finally muttered. "She was gone long before it happened."

"Oh."

Elizabeth did not ask him any more questions about his personal life, for which he was grateful, but she was not deterred in the slightest from pestering him about anything else she could think of. After a while, it became sort of amusing, really; she had the mind of a scientist but all the experience of a small child, and there was nothing that she wasn't desperately eager to know more about.

"Have you ever been to Paris?"

"Not yet," he said, and that made her smile wide and bright. He clenched his teeth and tried not to look at the joy written plain on her face. He was going to take her there. First steamer out of New York that he could find, he  _swore_ , and damn what Samuels or anybody else said.

He didn't have long to brood, though, because next thing he knew Elizabeth was running off again, crying, "Oh! A bookstore!"

It was only a little shop, with two small floors stacked mostly with books concerning Columbia; but there were penny dreadfuls and novels and maps, and on a display stand in one corner, a book of colored tintypes and linotypes and illustrations of Paris. Booker snatched it up before Elizabeth could see it, and had it paid for and tucked into his bag by the time she'd looked up from a volume on advanced trigonometry. It wouldn't make up for the diversion to New York, he knew, but hopefully it would be some small consolation.

Then they were outside again, past a sign for a museum called the Hall of Heroes, a stage where a pair of men in cartoonish masks were acting out a Duke & Dimwit sketch, and a carousel beside which Elizabeth paused, giggling hysterically.

Booker stopped. "What?"

She raised an eyebrow at him, still grinning. "I'm just imagining you on a carousel," she said, and collapsed into giggles again. So of course then he had to roll his eyes at her and climb the little wooden steps and perch atop a wooden dapple gray that was poised half-rearing on the platform, just to prove her wrong, and when he stepped off again the world gave a half-turn under him and he crashed into a rose-box while Elizabeth laughed and laughed and laughed.

The carousel marked the beginning of a carney-street, lined with shooting galleries and more of those Duke & Dimwit boxes, and the girl ran down it before he could stop her. Most of the galleries seemed to feature some variation of " _Shoot Down the Vox Populi!_ ", and there were several stands dedicated to reviling their crimes as well. When he asked if she knew anything about these Vox Populi, Elizabeth just shook her head and shrugged; but then there was the display at the end of the street, stocked with newspapers and pamphlets and grainy photographs. It told of a band of vicious rebels, who attacked the pious, God-loving citizens of Columbia and demanded ridiculous things like eight-hour workdays and equal rights for all races and genders. The most recent article, dated the sixth of July— the same day he'd arrived in this city— told of how the False Shepherd had come to spread the Vox Populi's lies, leading the Lamb of Columbia into their evil clutches.

Elizabeth paused and picked up a pamphlet. "Wait— Fitzroy?  _That's_ who this Daisy is?"

"So then you do know her?"

"Not very well. All my books said was that she wants to tear Columbia out of the sky." She glanced up. At the center of the stand was a large framed photograph of a woman, and Booker realized with a jolt that he knew her. She had dark skin and long dark hair, and hard jet eyes and a wicked smile. The world fuzzed—

She touched his shoulder and laughed, those black eyes flashing with indissoluble fire—

Elizabeth grabbed his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah."

"You're bleeding again."

Booker reached up, felt the wetness on his upper lip, and cursed. "Shit. Why does this happen? You got any idea?"

"It's something to do with the Tears, but… I don't know more than that. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. This ain't exactly a standard occurrence, and it's hardly your fault, either."

Elizabeth didn't seem convinced, but she let the subject drop. Booker didn't ask her what she meant about the 'Tears'. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

* * *

It was mid-morning by the time they reached the end of the resort. A whitewashed jetty protruded about fifty yards from the edge of the island, connected to the  _First Lady_ 's docking tower by nothing more than a pair of gondola cables. It was a bright, clear, cloudless, day, and the whole of the world was spread out below them. Elizabeth leaned out over the railing, hair whipping in the breeze, so that once again Booker had to fight the urge to grab her and pull her back.

"Booker, look!" she cried, pointing, "there's a city down there!"

The land below was too green, scattered with small white towns, to be American; somewhere in Europe, maybe. On the horizon was a larger collection of buildings, and the blinding pewter-gold line of a river. "Maybe we can stop there and see what it is!"

"Wouldn't you rather put as many miles between us and this city as you can?"

"It's all the way on the horizon," protested Elizabeth. "Couldn't we just see what city it is?"

Booker sighed. The longer he took to get her back to New York, the less likely Samuels was to be agreeable, but... just landing and looking around couldn't hurt, right?

"Yeah, sure," he said, "I s'pose, if we were quick about it."

"Oh, thank you! Come on, let's go! Let's call the gondola, let's go right now!" She pushed back away from the edge— Booker breathed a small sigh of relief— and pulled him towards the gondola station. A sign informed them that the next tour was in an hour, and that they could use the lever below to summon the gondola, as the service was automated; beside this was a short tower of glossy red metal, topped by a bulb full of dark purple crystals that flickered erratically with lines of blue-white energy. Elizabeth pulled on the lever set into the base of the structure, there was a high-pitched fizzing sound, and then the crystals inside the globe shattered, sending sparks shooting every which way. The device went dark; the gondola failed to descend.

Elizabeth glowered. "It looks like this runs exclusively on Shock Jockey," she said.

Booker inspected the sign more closely. Below the list of departure times, that same advertisement had been pinned: ' _Come See the Future of Power at the Hall of Heroes!_ ' He pointed, and Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "The museum we passed? That's convenient. I suppose we'll have to go get some."

"There are other airships in the city—"

"But this one's  _going_ to Paris, you said so! Stealing one would cause so many problems, and it would probably take even longer."

Booker shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, about that," he started to say, but was interrupted by a radio squeal and a canned voice shouting:

"The False Shepherd is loose the streets in our fair city! Will you suffer the shame of allowing your wives and daughters to fall prey to his machinations, or will you act? Act for your women folk! Act for your Prophet!  _Act!_ "

On the last word, there was a staccato burst of gunfire, and blue-coated soldiers came pouring into the boulevard. Booker swore and hauled Elizabeth aside, ducking down into the space between a whitewashed bench and the jetty railing. He hadn't seen any officers here before, other than the odd guard or two; they must have been hiding, lying in wait for the two of them to come along. How had the Prophet known? The man's supposed prescience was getting to the point where it was actually fairly unnerving. It was just rude of him, really.

Booker stuck his head up over the back of the bench long enough to assess the strength of Comstock's contingent. Soldiers had overtaken the promenade and many of the roofs; those civilians unfortunate enough to have been taking their morning constitutionals when the chaos began had already fled. A soldier on the roof of a confectionary saw Booker and shouted, and what looked like a firecracker whizzed past his head, struck the side of a building several hundred feet away, and exploded. Booker ducked back down again with a curse.

"Stay here," he hissed to Elizabeth.

"I can help you," she whispered back, glaring, but he shook his head.

"They get me, they kill me. Fine. You're smart enough to get on without me. They get you, though, and you're goin' back in that tower for the rest of your life."

"Are you always this optimistic?"

"Not always. Sometimes I have bad days."

"I am  _not_  going back to that tower, are we clear?"

"That's the idea, yeah."

"And I'm not sitting here like some, some damsel in distress, either! I can help, Booker,  _really_ —"

The bench next to theirs exploded in a cloud of splinters and smoke. Elizabeth shrieked and threw her hands up over her head as shards of wood patterned down around them. "Oh my God!"

Booker frowned at the wreckage of the bench, and the hole in the railing behind it. "That's not good."

" _Oh my God!_ "

"You okay?"

Elizabeth looked up at him from between her fingers. "Splendid," she said sourly. "You?"

"Fine. Now stay here, I mean it!" Booker waited just long enough for her to give a reluctant nod and then rolled out from their hiding place, just as the man with the rocket gun took aim again. They stared at each other, frozen, for a fraction of a second. Then the soldier fired and Booker tumbled to the side, landing hard on his shoulder, as a firecracker hissed past. He made to push himself up, only to smack his head painfully against something hard. He froze. He was laying with his head and shoulders just under the city rail, staring straight down at the World Below. Fields and rivers and roads spun beneath him in crystalline clarity; then another rocket went shooting by, barely missing his left ear, and he scrambled backwards on all fours, hauled himself upright, and hurled a handful of angry ravens in the general direction of the gunman. The commotion this caused gave him enough time to haul Elizabeth out from behind the bench and sprint across the courtyard to an alcove on the other side. The Springfield was heavy on his shoulder. He had three shots and there were at least twenty men, but he could see the little ship they'd come pouring down from, floating above the resort. It was smaller than a Hunt machine, but if the other dirigibles in Columbia were anything to go by, it was lifted by hydrogen, too...

It only took one bullet to strike the little airship's port engine off, and the machine went down, crashing into the promenade with a huge gout of scarlet and smoke. For a moment, there with the Springfield in is his hands and fire all around, Booker was back in stark winter with the young mother crying,  _crying_ —

No. He couldn't go there, not now, not when he and Beth were still in danger. He shook the memories from his ears, grabbed the girl, dragged her down the corridor pointing to the Hall of Heroes, propelled her into the lift, and slammed the grate shut behind them. Only once the elevator was jangling upwards did he allow himself to breathe again.

"Well," he said between great relieved gasps of air, "that was fun."

Elizabeth glared at him, rubbing at her arm where he'd grabbed her. "You and I need to sit down and have a serious discussion about your definition of 'fun'."

"We can discuss anything you like once we're out of this godforsaken city." Booker thumped back against the elevator wall with a deep sigh. Immediately the lights flickered, and the elevator ground to a halt.

The look Elizabeth gave him was deeply accusatory. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything! Just hold on a second." He turned around and began groping along the wall until he found the maintenance panel,which he managed to pry aside. A pin had come loose amongst the wiring: simple enough to fix, as long as he didn't electrocute himself. Elizabeth had apparently decided not to make it easy for him, either; she shrieked, causing him to jump and lose the pin amidst the tangle of cords and wires. "What is it  _now_?"

"A bee! I hate bees!"

"Oh, for the love of— just kill it!"

"I can't, it'll sting me!" Elizabeth wailed, and Booker sighed.

"All right, hang on—"

"—No, no, wait! I have an idea."

There was a brief silence, and Booker resumed fishing for the lost pin until a faint tremor in the air made him look up. Elizabeth had her hands out in front of her and was pulling slowly at empty space, which rippled and fuzzed between her fingers. The line of light flickered, went out, appeared again; then, with a gasp, Elizabeth flung her hands apart, and the air shifted like a curtain being drawn aside. Beyond it was a window open to a Columbia lit by hazy morning, with huge heady roses growing up the frame and spilling into the building through the gauzy curtains. Elizabeth beamed, panting faintly, as the little insect buzzed happily out of the elevator and into the bed of flowers.

Booker found himself rubbing nervously at the wrist she had healed. "So, what exactly  _is_ that that you do?"

"It's a tear," Elizabeth said, stepping daintily through the hole in the air. Booker reached out instinctively to stop her, but she just shimmered faintly and smiled at him from the other side. "I used to open them all the time in my tower. Normally they're dull as dishwater: a different-colored towel, or tea instead of coffee. But sometimes..." She turned, plucked a rose from the window box, tucked the blossom into her hair. "Sometimes I see something amazing, and I pull it through."

Booker stared at her in wonder, and horror, and something approaching fear.

"My God—" He stopped, swallowed, stared resolutely at the wall. Her mother had  _seemed_ normal; so what did that make Comstock, then, that his child should have such power? 

After a moment, when he thought he could speak without sounding entirely panicked, he said, "I don't suppose you got an airship hiding in there?"

Elizabeth shook her head and stared out the window, as if hoping to see the  _First Lady_ drift conveniently past.

"No," she said. "But there is—" She broke off and leaned out the window, the breeze that shouldn't have been there ruffling the petals of the blossom in her hair. "There is something—"

A red light arced through the haze of clouds, followed by the dim, dark shadow of something huge and birdlike.

"Elizabeth," Booker said, stepping forward.

"I don't—"

The light came again, accompanied this time by a shrill and unmistakable scream. "—Oh no—"

"Elizabeth, close it!"

She leapt through and turned, hooking her fingers into the edges of the Tear, but despite her visible straining the rip in reality would not close. The bird-machine swept by again, looped around, and dove straight for them. " _Close it_!"

"I'm  _trying_ —!"

Elizabeth slammed her palms together with a cry of pain and staggered back, and the Tear closed with a judder of gray just as a set of wicked bronze claws raked across the side of the building. The lift shuddered once, as if it had been struck by something heavy, and then was still. Elizabeth slumped down against the wall, hands covering her face and shaking visibly. Booker made to go over to her, stopped, made to say something, stopped again, and busied himself with rewiring the elevator. Only once the lift doors opened at the Hall of Heroes station did he allow himself to speak.

"I don't really understand what I just saw back there," he said, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, "but it sure as hell looks like a shortcut to getting us killed."

Elizabeth looked up at him, and he stopped dead and stared at her. It looked as if she had been punched in the face; the faint shadows under her eyes stood out stark and bruise-like, and her nose was bleeding steadily, her fingers stained red from her ineffectual attempts to stymie the flow of blood.

"I can help you," she said, but Booker shook his head.

"I can handle whatever comes along," he said firmly. "I'm a detective, remember?"

Elizabeth nodded a trifle reluctantly, graced him with a weary half-smile, and scrubbed the back of her hand across the lower half of her face with debatable success. "Right. The roguish hero, that's you. How could I ever have forgotten?"

"Yeah, exactly," Booker said, ignoring the mild barb4. "Look now, we're almost there." He pointed. Across the small courtyard, past a row of curio shops and a small whitewashed hotel, was a skyhook station that led directly up to the Hall of Heroes, a rambling mess of a complex fronted by a pair of three-story bronze statues, the likenesses of which Booker could not make out at this distance. They crossed the small square to the docking area, and Booker busied himself with the rail controls while Elizabeth vanished into the evacuated hotel. By the time he'd cleared the lines of cargo crates and found another skyhook, she'd returned, looking significantly less weary. Booker handed her the bladed bracer when she reached him, and her eyes widened. She looked from the filigreed device to the rails and back again. He opened his mouth to say something reassuring, remembering the nature of their last skyline ride, but there turned out to be no need.

" _This_ ," Elizabeth said, fitting her hand into the skyhook, "is going to be  _amazing_."

Booker smiled fondly and rolled his eyes and gingerly brought the blades of his own hook to life. He was half-expecting his wrist to give out as soon as it took his weight, but when the skyhook latched onto the rail with its usual jolt, he was pleasantly surprised to find that it did not. It ached a bit, but Elizabeth's unsettling ability had done its job; and then they were flying. Booker clung to his sky-hook as they raced through the icy, sunlit air, praying that it would hold. He risked a look back only once, and saw Elizabeth staring out at the city laid out below them, hair and skirts whipping in the wind, laughing unabashedly and twirling faintly on the rail. When she caught Booker watching her, she sped up to catch him, shouting over the roar of the wind, "This is incredible! It's like a dream!"

When they touched down at the Hall of Heroes, she didn't let go immediately, but hung there as Booker alighted on the platform and turned to raise his eyebrows at her.

"Well?"

"We have  _got_ to do this again," she said, still not dropping down to the ground.

"Y'know, they won't have skylines in Paris," he told her, and she stuck her tongue out at him before dropping lightly to her feet and carefully stashing her sky-hook beneath the sign informing them of gondola times back to Soldiers' Field. Booker watched her absently, and it was a few long moments before he noticed the poster tacked to the edge of the signboard.

  
_WANTED_  
 _For Treason & Sedition _  
 _By Municipal Order:  
_ _CORNELIUS SLATE_  


His first thought was that it had to be a mistake, or a coincidence. But there was no such thing as a coincidence in this city5, and there was no mistaking the proud one-eyed face rendered in thick charcoal lines on the water-damaged paper.

"I'll be damned," he murmured finally.

Elizabeth looked at him, curious. "Problem?"

"Slate," said Booker, gesturing to the 'wanted' poster. "I actually know the guy." He huffed a laugh, smiling wryly at the likeness of his old friend. "Seems he's still got a knack for makin' enemies. Wonder what he's doing here, though."

Elizabeth stepped up next to him, eyes dim and solemn in the shade of the station. "Do you think there will be trouble?"

"If the Prophet hasn't caught him yet, he ain't like to anytime soon."

"That's not what I meant."

Booker sighed, adjusted the strap of the Springfield on his shoulder. "Dunno. We were in the Cavalry together, but… depends if he's still the sorta man who'd be fighting that particular fight, or not."

Elizabeth blinked at him and tipped her head slightly to one side. "I'm not sure I follow."

"If he's the man I remember, we won't have a problem. If he's the soldier, we might just. No way to tell for certain, 'less we talk to the fellow and see." He glanced down and gave Elizabeth a grim little smile. "He's always been half a fool, half a hero. Never could figure which was more dangerous." He paused, and stared up at the darkened façade of the Hall of Heroes. It looked entirely abandoned; every single one of his senses was screaming  _Trap!_

Booker turned back to the girl, who was still watching him with that wide-eyed, wary expression. "Well, what do you say? There's a meeting with an old friend that's wanting for our presence."

* * *

 

 

...

* * *

1\. Not 'usually'? How many times has he tried this excuse, exactly2?

2\. You remember the bank he alluded to, don't you? Well, it didn't work then, either.

3\. It would deeply shock Mr. DeWitt to discover that most people, in fact, do  _not_ exist for the sole purpose of making his life miserable; that honor belongs to us and us alone.

4\. In truth, he was delighted that she was beginning to master the concept of  _irony_  in a meaning more dimensional than simply "something like iron".

5\. This is patently untrue. We simply do our part to keep the coincidences lining up in a nice, convenient manner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALSO ALSO you guys rock and your reviews rock and thanks a million to everyone who reviews and a TRILLION to the people still sticking with this story despite my inability to keep to a schedule omg
> 
> AND AND my betas were cool enough to put a recommendation up on tvtropes bless their hearts bUT THEN   
> SOMEONE ELSE CAME ALONG AND THEY DIDN'T EVEN HAVE ~FRIENDSHIP OBLIGATIONS~ I,,,,,,,,,,,,,,  
> [WHALE NOISES] 
> 
> THIS HAS BEEN YOUR DAILY REMINDER THAT THE AUTHOR IS A DUMB BUT HER READERS ARE REALLY AMAZINGLY COOL AND STUFF GOSH YOU GUYS GOSH ;3;
> 
> Okay now that the freakout is done, here's my feeble promise that the next chapter should be out fairly quickly — I know the Hall of Heroes arc should by rights be one chapter, but I feel like I ought to make a concerted effort to keep each update under twenty pages; maybe then I'll be able to get them out at a reasonable pace. Also, the end of the arc is right about when I decided that Booker and Elizabeth needed to get married at All Costs, so I figured the more I spaced out the schmoopy bits, the more value you guys would get out of them… so, coming up next: **What You Are in the Dark** (the answer is unwittingly incestuous, wheeeeeeeee). Stay tuned!


	7. What You Are in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK IT'S ME IT HAPPENED I DIDN'T DITCH YOU I TOLD YOU I WOULDN'T I'M SORRY THIS IS TAKING FOREVER I WON'T ABANDON THIS I WON'T AUGH
> 
> I suppose I should just admit that it's probably going to be another seventeen years before the next chapter and get it done with - but however long it takes, I PROMISE it will get finished!
> 
> Upon rereading the last chapter, Beth seemed a bit too much like a damsel in distress, and I apologize. I wrote, revised, and beta'd the entire last chapter in chunks, and then strung them together and posted them after only a cursory reading, because I wanted to get it out to you as quickly as possible after my sudden hiatus. I apologize for any OOC-ness, and promise to be careful not to overuse words like 'shrieked' in the future.

" _Show me a hero,  
_ _And I'll write you a tragedy._ "  
—F Scott Fitzgerald

**CHAPTER SEVEN:** _What You Are in the Dark._

The Hall of Heroes was unsettlingly silent. The first room they entered was a gift shop, selling wooden guns and tomahawks and, according to the advertisements plastered everywhere, the Shock Jockey vigor. There was a storeroom behind the counter, and Booker crossed his fingers while Elizabeth picked the lock, but it was immediately obvious that the place had been haphazardly ransacked. Crates had been torn open and boxes overturned, and the remains of a purple vigor bottle lay shattered on the floor. Booker sighed. It wasn't like he'd been expecting any different, but still, it would have been nice for something to be easy for once.

"Well, there ain't no Shock Jockey here. Better keep moving."

He cased the storage closet anyways, coming up with a locksmithing kit, which he gave over to Elizabeth; a pouch of silver eagle coins, which he pocketed; several phials of salts, one bottle of the same 'Murder of Crows' vigor that he'd taken from the zealots' mansion, and one new one: a liquid the color and consistency of honey, stoppered with a rearing horse. 'Bucking Bronco', the label read; he exchanged glances with Elizabeth, who shrugged, and uncorked the bottle cautiously.

The liquid inside was sunlight and horsehair and the scent of earth after rain. At first nothing seemed to happen, and Booker found himself oddly disappointed; but then his feet were heaved out from under him and he was slammed into the earth, flat on his back and gasping for air. For a moment he lay stunned while Folly stood over him, innocently flicking her tail as if wondering what he was doing down there on the ground. Presently, the world righted itself, and he was standing upright in the storeroom of the Hall of Heroes gift shop with Elizabeth watching him curiously. He offered her the remnants of the vigor, but she shook her head.

"I think they're based off of the Tears," she said, looking down at her hands and flexing her fingers ruefully. "I have no idea what would happen if I tried to use one, but I can't imagine that it would be good."

"Fair enough."

They gave the gift shop one last cursory sweep and then moved on, into the circular foyer of the museum proper. It looked as if some altercation had recently taken place; large chunks of the wall had been knocked down, and a spray of bullet holes marked an arch from ceiling to floor along one side of the rotunda. Under a particularly large pile of rubble was a glimpse of blue fabric, like a uniform, and nearby slumped the corpse of a Columbian officer.

The museum had once been grand, but whoever had been here had done their damnedest to change this. Murals had been painted over with crude slogans and the words, over and over, "TIN MAN!" One of the many doors that ringed the chamber had been ripped off its hinges, revealing another ransacked storage closet beyond. The middle of the room was entirely taken up by a massive statue of a rapier-wielding Comstock, which Booker stared at skeptically. The man really did like erecting monuments to himself, but the sight was made somewhat more tolerable by the fact that someone had proclaimed him to be a "WHORE" in bright red paint; the 'O' appeared to have been torn from the illuminated sign outside, and was still flickering erratically. Booker was so busy scowling bemusedly at the granite likeness that he failed to notice the placard mounted beneath it until Elizabeth bent to read it aloud.

"'Our Prophet, Father Comstock: Commander of the Seventh Cavalry'," she said, stepping back to stare up at the statue as well. Booker jerked in alarm, knuckles going white against the butt of his Springfield; but the jolt of shock lasted only a moment, and then he snorted in amused disgust.

"That man did not lead the Seventh," he said, still trying unsuccessfully not to laugh at the ludicrousness of it all. "Guy called Sam Whitside did. Hell, I can barely remember the guy. Played a mean hand of poker an' smoked a lot, but that's about it."

"Rem– you were there?"

"Yeah, and I don't recall any 'Comstock' there with me, neither. 'Course, I had... other things to worry about." He went quiet, memories flashing behind his eyes: patchy snow, and Folly rearing, and the girl with the dark eyes and the clutching hands, sobbing—

"Booker?"

He jerked himself back to reality with a sharp exhalation, and shook his head. Elizabeth had moved closer to him and was staring into his face with wide eyes, hands outstretched uncertainly. He found himself automatically raising a hand to his upper lip.

"I'm not bleeding again, am I?"

"No," Elizabeth said. "You went quiet, and you looked–" she paused here for a moment, wringing her hands as she searched for words– "angry."

"Nah." He shook his head and smiled his reassurances. "Just remembering some things I'd've liked to have kept forgotten." He turned from the statue and prowled deeper into the darkened hall, clutching the carbine like a shield. "Word of advice: don't get involved in a war you aren't sure you ought to be winning."

"I hadn't really planned on it," said Elizabeth, picking her way past him through the rubble, towards the double doors at the far end of the hall. Her hand had scarce touched the handle when a voice cried out, shattering the silence:

"Hasn't he told you? Corporal DeWitt proved his worth on the field that day!"

The shout was accompanied by a sudden swell of blinding floodlights, and both of them jumped. Booker wheeled towards the source of the shout, throwing up a hand as if to ward off an attack; ravens exploded outwards in a storm of feathers and angry cawing and disappeared into the rafters of the hall. Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hands to hide her laughter, but he did his best to ignore her. Light was still pouring into the room, and he squinted towards it instead, trying to calm himself. He was getting jumpy; this was ridiculous.

"Slate?" he called upwards, to cover his confusion. "That really you?"

The voice of his former compatriot came back tinny, as if he were speaking through a megaphone. "You've always been different, haven't you, Booker? You crave no glory; so what is it that you fight for?"

It was something Booker had asked himself a hundred times over. Neither of them had known the answer when they'd been brothers in arms; the difference between them was that Slate had found his, while Booker had simply abandoned the question. Still, if he was half the man that Booker remembered, there was a chance they'd be able to help each other.

"Look," he said, in the general direction of Slate's voice, "I see you're, uh, caught up in some sort of jam here. If you could see fit to let us through to where they keep this Shock Jockey, then we'll—"

Slate shouted over him as if he wasn't even there. "That tin soldier Comstock wants my boys dead. We won't die at his hands!"

"—What?"

There was a distant  _crunk_  and the floodlights cut out, plunging Booker and Elizabeth into darkness. Beth gave a cry of alarm; he saw her outline reach for him, and grabbed out to pull her close.

"What's happening?"

Booker shushed her. "We're in trouble."

He could practically feel her rolling her eyes as she muttered, "What a surprise."

"All my men have left is a choice," Slate's voice cried from the darkness. "Die at the hands of a tin soldier, or a real one!"

Then there was light again as the doors encircling the Hall of Heroes foyer opened, blue-coated soldiers pouring through. They weren't Columbian; their uniforms were unadorned, and they carried a hodgepodge assortment of weapons, which were pointed to a one at Booker.

_Oh, lovely_ , he thought, and hurled himself to one side, taking Elizabeth with him, just as the men opened fire. They scrambled together to the relative cover of one of the larger piles of rubble, ducking behind it as Slate's soldiers shouted and fanned out, searching for them. Booker swore under his breath and grappled for his stowed shotgun, thrusting the Springfield at Elizabeth. She recoiled and nearly dropped it, as if afraid it might explode.

"It's so heavy! What am I supposed to do with this?"

"Just hang tight and, I dunno, club someone over the head with it if they get too close. Here," he added, yanking the rifle back from her hands, snapping open the breech, and disarming it in one smooth, practiced motion. "Now you won't shoot your eye out by mistake."

"Thanks," said Elizabeth icily, but she took the carbine back from him all the same. Booker rolled from cover and went after Slate's men, skirting around the granite Comstock's podium to pick them off. One got right up behind him and hooked an arm around his throat; Booker jerked around, unthinking, and shoved the blades of the skyhook into the man's face with a deeply satisfying  _crunch_. From somewhere in the darkness, Elizabeth cried out in revulsion, but she did not run from him this time; she just covered her face with her hands and didn't look up again until the altercation had ended and he went to lay a gentle hand upon her shoulder.

"Let's keep moving."

Elizabeth shuddered once and nodded. "Yes."

"You see?" Slate's voice shouted, strangely triumphant. "You're a killer, Booker, whether you like it or not!"

"Look, Slate, we're just here on account of a vigor, and then we'll leave! I don't want to fight you."

"If you want it, you'll have to help me first," Slate said. Booker swept his eyes around the room again, but the old soldier was nowhere to be found. "You give my men a soldier's death. They wait for you in Wounded Knee and Peking."

With that, the lights shut off again; Booker shouted after him, but it appeared the other man had left. "Damn it all to Hell and back," he finally growled, kicking at a loose bit of ceiling and watching it skitter away into the darkness of the museum. "Come on, Elizabeth, and best keep an eye out. No doubt he's got something planned." With that, he turned off and marched in the direction of one of the doors, the girl trotting to keep up.

The door he picked opened out into a narrow entryway featuring another of Comstock's indulgent statues. This stood against a painted plyboard backdrop of Columbia raining fire down upon a snowy city. The engraving at its base read, " _The Cleansing of the Orient._ " Booker regarded it with deep distaste; he hadn't known all that much about the incident apart from scanning the headlines, but he somehow doubted there was anything 'cleanly' about Columbia's razing of the city.

Past the hallway, the exhibit turned into a twilit temple, half-buried in snow; a path for visitors to follow led through the labyrinthine space, bordered every few paces by informational signs. Cold wind blew from somewhere, and eerie music drifted within the depths of the hall. Spherical glass lanterns cast shifting shadows among the scarlet-washed columns; after a moment's consideration, Elizabeth reached up to pluck one from the nearest pillar, throwing her pale face into sharp relief.

As they entered the first of the temple-like structures, a plyboard caricature of a Yihetuan soldier flipped down at them from some concealed spring, baring clawed hands. Elizabeth jumped back out of the way with a squeak of alarm; Booker punched reflexively, cracking the skyhook against the wood and spraying splinters in every direction.

"God _damn_ it."

Elizabeth giggled at him. "At least you're not asleep on your feet. What is this place?"

"The end of the Boxer Rebellion," Booker said. "Peking, 1901. I remember reading about it in the papers. Columbia seceded straight after, and a lot of people thought it was good riddance. That was the first I heard of the city."

"Oh! I've read about this." She held up the lantern, light bobbing over the cotton 'snow' in erratic sweeps. "Comstock led the Columbian troops to Peking and—"

"Comstock wasn't there!" It appeared Slate had returned. Booker looked around wildly, but his search proved once again futile. "The Boxers took my eye and thirty of my friends! Is there even a stone to mark that sacrifice?"

Where the men came from, Booker had no idea, but suddenly he and Elizabeth were barred within the diorama, surrounded by Slate's blue-uniformed thugs. He growled in frustration – all this just to power up a goddamn gondola? When they got back to New York, he was going to have Words with Samuels about this.

"Booker! Crow!"

He started at Elizabeth's shout, just in time to see a cloud of darkness and ravens swirl out of the rocks and come barreling towards him. He skittered backwards as talons tore at his face, a blast from the shotgun barely dispersing them long enough for him to find his footing. Behind him, one of the round lanterns fuzzed gray, its wick alternating between exposed and safely covered by the glass; he drew the last of his salts to grab a handful of burning oil from the broken well and hurl it at the screaming birds. The air filled with the stink of burning feathers, and the crow coalesced into a uniformed man, beating at his flaming clothes and staggering into his brothers-in-arms. The distraction this caused was enough for Booker to reload the shotgun, and he fell quickly into a sort of muted void, felling soldiers one after the other without really processing what was happening. In the back of his mind, Anna whispered that he swore to her he'd never visit that gray place in his head again, but it wasn't enough; only Elizabeth's cry of pain was enough to snap him out of his fugue. The last of Slate's soldiers, perhaps deciding that Booker was a more difficult target, had gone after the girl instead, and now had her by the braid; Booker bore down on him only to realize he had expended his gun's buckshot, but it turned out he needn't have worried. Before he could make the switch to his skyhook, Elizabeth half-turned to face her captor, hefting the barrel of the Springfield with both hands and bringing it down on the man's head with a resounding  _crack_. The soldier dropped like a sack of flour; Beth wrested the shotgun from his twitching fingers and offered it to Booker, breathing heavily.

Booker stared at her.

"Your mouth's open," she said serenely, after about a minute had passed; she thrust the new shotgun into Booker's hands and strode daintily past, retying her mussed hair as if she hadn't just brained a heavily-armed soldier three times her weight. Booker stared at her some more for good measure, and then followed, cursing Slate's name each time he stepped over a corpse he couldn't remember felling.

As if on cue, the other man's voice spoke up again. "You see, young miss? You see the man that Comstock wishes he was? A real soldier!"

Booker was really starting to want to kill the guy. What was he even hoping to accomplish? The old soldier had always been a little unbalanced, but this grandiose charade reeked of a desperation that went beyond his usual erraticism.

"I don't want to do this, Slate! Just give me what I need!"

"I will," Slate promised, "once you've done the same for me. Come find me among the Ghost Dancers."

Booker swallowed hard. This was the part he'd been afraid of. Of course Comstock had to have a museum glorifying Wounded Knee; the Prophet seemed to revel in anything that could be twisted to fit his stilted vision of what was 'American', and there was no doubt as to the amount of propaganda he could leach from this. Booker wasn't one to be disgusted easily, but this was past even his standards.

"Come on," he muttered to Elizabeth, holstering the shotgun and relieving her of his Springfield. "Let's get this over with."

She must have sensed his dark mood, because she did not speak again until they had tracked back across the Hall of Heroes foyer and into the other exhibit. They were greeted there by a statue of Comstock mounted upon a stormy silver Morgan, poised half-rearing and painted in vivid colors. The accompanying placard read, " _The Prophet's Folly_."

Booker frowned at it. "Now that's just rude."

"A poor choice of words, especially if they wanted to make him look heroic," Elizabeth agreed, "but I'm not sure I follow."

"There were four hundred riders in the Seventh," he said. "Most of them were on thoroughbreds or Arabs, but we had two Morgans, too: one was Whitside's, a bay stallion called Roman. Mean thing, took a couple fingers off'a men what got too close. The other was a mare, Folly, a little dapple gray. Swiftest horse in the Cavalry. I never was much of an animal person, but I really did love that mare."He studied the painted statue. Somebody else who had been in the battle must have wound up in Comstock's acquaintance; the likeness was exact, down to the blaze that swept from the mare's forelock to the middle of her soft black nose. He reached out as if to run his fingers along the sleek dappled neck, but then remembered himself and snatched his hand away.

"You see?" Slate was back. "It all belongs to Comstock now! The tin soldier takes credit for everything he can lay his hands on, and leaves nothing but lies for us. Take your companion here, young lady." Elizabeth jumped as the voice abruptly switched its attention to her. "He wrapped himself in glory on the twenty-ninth of December, eighteen-hundred and ninety."

She turned to Booker, eyes round black hollows in the stark light of the lantern. "W-what does he mean?"

Booker cursed Slate in every language he knew, but the girl was still observing him expectantly. There was no way to keep the weariness from his voice when he spoke. "You don't want to know."

She hunched down against herself, hugging the lantern tightly. It was clear she could guess that whatever it was, it hadn't been good."…Oh. I see."

Apparently Slate had other ideas. "Tell her, Booker," he said from his hiding place. "Tell her how we strode that battlefield like the heroes of Sparta! I can still hear the screams." There was a new heavy gravity to the tinny voice. Booker clenched and unclenched his hands: so did he, and he suspected Slate knew that, that all of this was some sort of challenge, some sort of test. They'd been friends once, when they were young, all full of bloodlust and misguided patriotism. Booker had carried his Hell on his shoulders ever since then, and now he wondered if perhaps Slate had too.

This had to stop, one way or another. He steeled himself and led Elizabeth through the entryway, into the exhibit proper.

It was dim inside, as it had been in the Boxer display. Fires of flapping silk, lit scarlet from below, burned on painted wooden hillsides, and savage-faced plaster warriors stood, crowned in feathers and brandishing dripping axes, over the corpses of handsome young men. Booker clung to the Springfield with white-knuckled hands, and jumped at every sound. Elizabeth followed behind, lantern held high, staring between him and the scenery with wide, nervous eyes.

"This isn't right," he heard himself saying. "This  _isn't right._ " Everywhere he looked, the Lakota warriors of Wounded Knee were running down terrified white civilians: housewives and children and farm boys. He'd thought he couldn't get any angrier about what had happened there, but Comstock was doing his damnedest to prove him wrong. He wanted to punch something, or tear all of the statues down, but even that felt lame and futile. There'd be no rest for that dark-eyed girl, no older than Elizabeth, who'd pled so desperately for the life of her infant son; her blood had washed away with the snows long ago, and some shattered chunks of plaster wouldn't change anything. But seeing Comstock skewing it like this, taking something rotten and hailing it as glorious and good, made Booker sick inside. The Prophet had thought a swift silver horse important enough to steal and make a show of, but he apparently hadn't cared one whit about a teenage girl shot to pieces for the mere crime of being in the way.

She'd had turquoise in her hair, and the only English word she'd even known was ' _please_ '—

"Booker?" He jumped, shoulders spasming as if he'd been shocked, and looked down to find Elizabeth clutching his arm with both hands. "Are you all right?"

"No," he said. The smile he offered her was weary and miserable. "Let's keep moving."

In the final room of the exhibit, Slate's men came for them at last. The distraction was almost a relief, but the sweep of the hills painted on the walls was a thorn in the back of his mind, and every soldier that he killed was another cold remembrance of his sins.

The skyhook made a ruin of the first man's throat, and the second two were claimed by a single blast from the shotgun. He wouldn't use his Springfield, not here; the scenery of the display was making it difficult enough to stay away from that gray empty place in his head, and he didn't want to think about what he'd become with the same old rifle in his hands. When he ran out of shot, he turned to his vigors instead, pulling crows from their flickering nests in the rafters and setting them alight with handfuls of burning lamp oil. The newest vigor hadn't seemed like much, but when he tugged experimentally at a cutout tipi that shivered with gray, it went cartwheeling through the diorama as if struck by a battering ram, sending soldiers and statuary alike flying every which way.

"Booker,  _duck_!"

His reflexes obeyed before his mind had caught up, and Elizabeth hurled an empty salt bottle with unerring aim; it struck the man that had been sneaking up behind him squarely between the eyes, and he sank to the ground like a puppet with strings cut, knocked cold.

Booker stared at the soldier's prone form in astonishment. "Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome! Look out!"

Booker jerked back around again in time to grab the barrel of another soldier's carbine with the skyhook and haul it to the side, the kick as it fired making his arm go numb even through the bracer. He slammed a palmful of fire into the man's face and sent him stumbling away, screaming and clawing at his eyes; and then that was it, and the battle was over. The burning man's cries faded into agonized moans and then into silence, until the only sounds were the crackle of embers and the occasional ' _Quork!_ ' from the ravens that still hopped through the carnage, fluffing their smoldering feathers nonchalantly and pecking at the fallen soldiers' eyes.

Booker looked from Elizabeth, currently extricating herself from the relative safety of the space between a cutout warrior and the wall, to the soldier she'd felled. "Nice, uh, nice shot."

She stood and brushed down her skirts, resolutely not looking at him. "Well, if there's going to be violence either way, I may as well make myself useful."

"That's. You don't have to, uh." He faltered for a moment, before settling rather lamely on, "Thanks. Really, though, I'd've preferred to have avoided this particular bout of violence," he added, giving the ceiling a pointed glare in the hopes that his old comrade was still listening.

His assumption turned out to be correct. "You did them a favor, Booker," Slate said. "You let them die like men."

Of all the pigheaded, idiotic—! "I didn't ask for this, Slate! I have no quarrel with you or your men!"

"Heroes never ask." The voice spoke matter-of-factly, as if this statement somehow made everything better.

"I never claimed to be no hero!"

"Then what are you? If you take away all the parts of Booker DeWitt that you tried to erase, what's left?"

To that, he had no answer. There wasn't a damn part of the person that had so readily waded into the carnage at Wounded Knee that he wanted to keep. When he provided no response, Slate's voice spoke again. "Come back to the rotunda. It's almost over."

Elizabeth followed him out, boots clacking on the cobbled path. "What did Slate mean? What did you try to erase?"

The flickering silk fires cast demons' shadows across the cobblestones. Booker stared down at his feet as they walked, rubbing absently at his brand. "Now that you're out of yours, you might realize cages have their advantages."

Beth's response was as immediate as it was vehement. "A choice is always better than none, " she said, "no matter the outcome."

"Yeah? What if you woke up one day and realized you didn't like what you chose?"

Elizabeth didn't answer, just tacked along silently beside him with the lantern held high, her face solemn and drawn. What must she think of him, he wondered? And yet she followed him faithfully, even as he led her into danger after danger. He only hoped he could continue to lead her back out again.

The central chamber was deserted when they returned; apparently Slate had run out of men to throw at them. Booker circled the foyer cautiously, but there was nothing to be found but the wake of bodies he'd already left behind. The floodlights had been switched on again, illuminating everything with an eerie, unsaturated glow. After a minute or so of silence, Slate returned as well.

"I've got what you need, Booker. You will find me past the First Lady's memorial."

The man clearly had a death wish. Booker scowled and clenched his jaw. He could do this, he told himself furiously. He'd survived being made to relive Wounded Knee, and he'd survive seeing what Comstock had done to his Lady.

Elizabeth caught sight of his stormy expression and reached out a tentative hand as if to touch him on the shoulder, but then hesitated and pulled it back again. "What's wrong?"

He couldn't do it. He couldn't tell her, not when he was so close to having to betray her already. "Nothing," he said, and it sounded bitter even to his ears. "I'm just sick of this chase. This better be one Hell of a vigor." He sighed. "Come on. Let's keep moving."

Elizabeth didn't droop, or complain. She just smiled up at him, weary but earnest, and kept pace as they approached the final exhibit in the Hall of Heroes.

"You've seen what Comstock did to our history," Slate said when they paused at the door. "Now see how he's rewritten his own."

Booker had seen plenty more than he'd wanted to already. He just sighed and turned the handle, holding the door for Elizabeth and then following her inside.

This exhibit was easily twice as large as the other two combined, stretching back in a labyrinth of white limestone and painted skies. The first of the interconnected chambers was bisected by a narrow pool of shallow water, into which visitors had scattered coins and the occasional flower. The stairs down into the next room were flanked by sculpted angels bearing the Lady's face; tears flowed from their eyes to fill the pool below. That same painting of her in the indigo gown was mounted on the far wall.

Seeing one beside the other, it was amazing just how much Elizabeth resembled her mother, and just how different the two of them had turned out to be.

"Say what you will about Lady Comstock," Beth said, eyeing the painting critically, "but she certainly had an eye for fashion."

"What do you know about her?" The question escaped before Booker could stop himself, but Elizabeth didn't seem to find it the slightest bit odd.

"Very little," she said. "My books never even mentioned her name. Only that she was supposedly a, and I quote, 'pillar of devotion, to both the Lords her God and her Prophet alike'."

Booker snorted. That didn't sound anything like the woman he'd known. Maybe it was better, he thought; maybe he could pretend that this monument had been built for someone else, and they could make it through without him giving himself away.

They descended the steps together, into the second display. This one had a statue of Lady Comstock in a chariot, holding a swaddled infant aloft against the painted evening sky. Elizabeth stared at it, and then at the plaques mounted to the base.

"'The seed of the Prophet lay in the womb of our Lady but for a single week'," she read. "Comstock had a child? My books never mentioned anything about that." She turned to Booker questioningly, and he searched desperately for a suitable response. There was nothing for it; if she found out, she found out. She had no love for the Prophet, so perhaps she would not blame Booker for taking her away from him, even if she did discover that he was her father. Still, he wasn't going to be the one to break it to her.

"That's quite an omission," he said finally. "Can't imagine that was by accident."

"'But the child fell ill'," Elizabeth continued, moving on to the next placard, "'and our Lady prayed for the Prophet's heir day and night'..."

She wrapped her arms around herself and stared up at the statute, clearly troubled. Booker found himself doing the same. He seriously doubted that the statement carved in brass was true, and that the Lady had carried Elizabeth for only a week, that she really was a God-given miracle child1; but then again, this was a girl who could tear apart the seams of the universe itself, so he really couldn't be sure what to believe anymore.

"'The Prophet's heir'," Elizabeth repeated thoughtfully, snapping him out of his daze. "I wonder why I've never heard of him before. That's... troubling." She shook her head and spun on one heel to face the next door. "Shall we?"

"After you," Booker said, and followed her into the next display.

Lady Comstock's likeness knelt in prayer, facing the rising sun. In the shadows of the chamber, another statue crouched. The young woman was narrow and lanky, with a dozen long braids tied back under a sculpted bandanna. Her face was carved into a vicious snarl, and there was a red silk scarf twined between her hands.

Fitzroy. Booker saw again her eyes, her laugh— but he shoved the false memories aside before he could lapse into them again. There must have been some kind of trigger in the door, for as he and Elizabeth passed, the recorded voice of the Prophet spoke up from somewhere in the depths of the exhibit:

" _Lo! while Daisy Fitzroy has murdered my beloved, she shall not have the child! She shall not come betwixt her and prophecy!_ "

He barely managed to smother the wave of furious revulsion that rose in him. Were there no depths to which the Prophet was unwilling to sink, that he would use his own wife's suicide as propaganda to create a public enemy? Booker hadn't exactly parted from her on the happiest of terms – Hell, there'd been a short time, after she'd left him, when the news of her death would have brought him a bitter sort of joy – but she'd still deserved better than Comstock. She'd deserved better than  _him_.

They passed under the shadow of the ill-fated Lady and into what looked to be the penultimate display.

The Prophet's voice boomed once again as they passed the hidden trigger. " _The Seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne, and drown in flame the mountains of Man!_ "

He stood sculpted in marble upon a bridge over another long pool of water, cradling the blanket-wrapped child to his chest with one arm and offering his other palm to a likeness of the great bronze angel, blazing golden in the artificial sunrise.

"That's my tower," Elizabeth said, in a strangled sort of whisper. Before Booker could reach out to her, or find the words to speak, she darted across the room to the square of brass mounted on the bridge, splashing through the pool and abandoning the lantern on the floor. "'Our Prophet took the Lamb to a place of refuge'... no. No no no. That can't– I– I'm–" She staggered backwards and slipped, landing heavily on the lip of the fountain. "But that means I'm—"

"Comstock's daughter," Booker offered woodenly. Now that the jig was up, he found he had no idea what to say. "Yeah."

Elizabeth stumbled upright and rounded on him. "You  _knew_? You, you– you knew all this time, and you never said a word!  _Why?_ "

He made a valiant effort not to get angry, and only partially succeeded. "What was I gonna say? 'Oh, and by the way, the nutcase I'm rescuing you from just happens to be your father'? There wasn't exactly a great moment to bring it up!"

He instantly regretted his harshness; Beth slumped to the floor again and buried her face in her hands. "What does he even want with me? If he's my father, he's supposed to take care of me! What would compel him to imprison me like that?"

"I dunno." Booker knelt down beside her and, after a brief bout of indecision, put an arm around her shaking shoulders. "Hey, maybe– maybe he really was just tryin' to keep you safe. He might be a prophet, but that don't mean he'll live forever. He probably wants you to lead Columbia when he's gone."

Elizabeth scrubbed at her face with the back of a hand and looked up at him, something fierce and determined in her pale eyes."Well, I want a puppy, but that doesn't mean I'm going to get one!"

Booker would have laughed if he didn't think she'd deck him for it, so he just smiled sadly and offered her his hand instead. "We ever get out of this place, I'll buy you a puppy. Deal?"

That made her smile, watery but wide and earnest. She wrapped her fingers around his, and he pulled her to her feet.

"Deal," she said.

It was thus in a subdued, if companionable, silence that they passed through the tableau of Comstock's pursuit of Daisy Fitzroy, whose scarlet-cloaked statue fled from the Prophet's upraised sword. It made him irrationally happy to see that the Prophet still hadn't caught the anarchist. _Serves him right,_ he thought, _trying to pin her for a crime she didn't commit_ 3.

And then that was it, and they had walked the course of the First Lady's memorial. The last set of doors released them into a chilly evening, the lavender sky already lit with the first stars. Beyond was a short cobbled alley, which opened out after several yards onto to a balcony overlooking a sunken courtyard, scattered with crates and wooden construction scaffolds. Past that was another marble-fronted edifice, which Booker assumed was the next wing of the Hall of Heroes museum. Between it and them, however, milled a dozen of Slate's bluebacks, hemmed into the courtyard by several constant streams of hissing blue-white electricity.

Booker ducked down below the railing before they could be spotted, pulling Elizabeth with him. "Must be that Shock Jockey," he muttered, glaring at the lines of lightning. "Sure hope it's worth it."

Elizabeth grabbed at his wrist, and for half a moment he feared they had been discovered, but all was quiet in the courtyard below; Beth's eyes were fixed on a point about thirty feet afore and above them. He followed her gaze and saw a gray-edged rip in the air, humming and distorting the space around it. Through it, he caught a glimpse of what looked like a Dickinson centrifugal gun, suspended from an aerostat balloon that had been gaily painted red-white-and-blue and adorned with the Columbian flag.

"Booker, look! Remember what Slate said? Comstock wants him dead. This must be a Tear to when his forces catch up with them. I know what you said about using my powers, but it would buy us some time—"

"Yeah, okay. Do it," he said. Elizabeth's forehead creased in concentration, and she reached up, framing the Tear with her fingers. As she pulled her hands apart, the rip widened, the colors of the aerostat beyond becoming more vivid as it was pulled into the world. Then all at once the Tear snapped open, and bright orange lights flared up along the barrel of the flying gun. Half a second later, its discs spun to life; bullets strafed the courtyard, sending Slate's men into a panicked confusion as they sought to find cover from the sudden onslaught.

Booker observed the pandemonium with a sense of deep satisfaction. "Nice."

"Thanks," said Elizabeth. Her voice was faint, and abruptly she sagged against him, one hand pressed to her forehead. A bead of blood dripped sluggishly down her upper lip, and she hastily dashed it away.

"Hey, you okay?"

"A little dizzy, but it'll pass. I just need a moment."

Booker risked a peek over the banister and hissed in annoyance. "I don't think we got one," he said. Slate's men were regrouping; several had Springfield rifles or M1909s, and the long-range guns would soon make short work of even the reinforced balloons that kept the Dickinson machine gun aloft.

"Comstock's pet can do some wonderful tricks!"

That was Slate's voice, but it lacked the tinny, canned quality that it had possessed inside the Hall of Heroes. Elizabeth had gone rigid all over at the jab; Booker chanced another look and saw the man himself, standing at the top of the stairs on the other end of the courtyard and surrounded by a nimbus of shivering blue-white lightning. "Do you know what you've got there?"

Booker was going to kill him. "That's enough, Slate! We just need the vigor to get out of Columbia. We're taking it, one way or another!"

"Tin men, DeWitt! That's what Comstock will turn us into!" It was starting to seem like the older man had gone round the bend at last. There was a rising note of hysteria in his hoarse voice as he shouted across the courtyard."Wires and gears to replace heads and hearts!"

There was a distant mechanical grinding and a loud  _thud_ , and then a metallic voice that Booker didn't recognize, crying something about the Prophet in a staticky chant. Another look over the balustrade revealed an automaton: the seven-foot-tall likeness of George Washington, armed with a Gatling gun and clanging towards them up the stairs.

"Mother _f—Move!_ " Booker grabbed Elizabeth's wrist and shuttled her down the balcony, towards an alcove between two of the marble columns that supported the façade of the hall they'd just exited. There was a space about four feet off the ground just big enough to accommodate a slender teenage girl; he pointed, and when she indicated her understanding, knelt to help her clamber up into its relative shelter.

There was another mechanical noise, and a pneumatic hiss of steam; the automaton was mounting the stairs.

"That's a Patriot– I thought they were just for show! How did Slate manage to hack it?"

"Hell if I know! You got any ideas on how to kill it?"

Elizabeth gave a panicked groan and wrung her hands. "Uh– Yes! The gears! All Columbian automatons are powered by engines on their backs. I think a round or two should take it out."

"You think?" He groaned. "That's reassuring."

"To the sky, Comstock bent his knee, and saw with holy prophecy!" shouted the automaton. "An Eden floating in the mist, by man forsworn, by Heaven kissed!"

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me." It rhymed. Of  _course_  it rhymed. He was done, Booker decided: he just wasn't going to be surprised by anything in this ridiculous city anymore. "Hold this—" he slung his bag over his shoulder and hoisted it unceremoniously into Elizabeth's lap— "and if you see any more of those Tears, use them!"

"What are you going to do?"

Booker grinned at her and primed his Springfield with a satisfyingly ominous  _chak_. "Probably something really stupid."

"Be careful," Beth called after him, but he was already racing along the balcony towards the closest of the scaffolds. The automaton she had identified as a 'Patriot' clanked after him, gunning the balcony into a mess of shattered marble and rhyming aggressively. Booker scrambled up the rickety wooden frame, painfully aware of what a huge target he was making of himself. A buzz of gray flared on the edges of his vision, but it turned out to only be a nest of crows that had made itself at home in the crook where two beams met; the birds swarmed the Patriot, but their stabbing beaks and raking talons didn't even scratch the automaton's enameled surface. Some of the flock broke off to harass the soldiers that had managed to evade the flying gun, but they were not enough, and Booker didn't have the energy to use another vigor and scramble out of firing range at the same time.

Even as he thought, another bullet whistled past, dangerously close to his left ear. A moment later, one punched through the side of his leg; he howled in pain and buckled, only barely managing to hook his arms over a crossbeam to keep from falling. All he could see were white stars, and his leg felt thick and numb, but that wouldn't last for very long; a dull ache was already starting up along the wound. Gasping for breath, he hauled himself to the top of the platform and crouched there, trying to focus. One of the soldiers below turned his Hotchkiss upwards; Booker picked up a brick from the neat stack the mortarer had left behind, hefted it once, and hurled it with all his strength. The man leapt aside and the brick sailed past, missing its target by a good two feet and shattering on the cobblestones, but at least it provided something of a distraction. He leveled the Springfield and breathed in, going still and letting the pain of his leg and the chaos around him fade away as he sighted down the little scope. Two shots took out the two closest of Slate's men, and, on a sudden hunch, the third shattered a pile of the violet Shock Jockey crystals. Bolts of energy writhed away from the explosion, lancing towards several unfortunate soldiers and striking them paralyzed; a fresh round from the Springfield took the incapacitated men out one after the other, their heads popping like overripe grapes as the lightning coursed through them.

Now all that was left was the automaton. It was questing along the edge of the balcony, but didn't seem to be able to see anything higher than forty-five degrees above its head; still, it would be a formidable threat, and Booker didn't want to risk it going after Elizabeth if it got bored of searching for him. He raised the rifle again, sighting for the tangle of gears and canvas tubing that protruded from its back. His shot must have hit something important: the Patriot shuddered and clanged and jangled; then, with comical slowness, its head tilted, broke free, bounced once, and rolled to a halt on the ground. There was a breath's worth of pause, and then the automaton resumed its search, now lurching erratically and shouting increasingly-garbled snippets of poetry.

"Oh, for the love of Christ."

"Booker, I have an idea!" Elizabeth waved urgently from her hiding spot. "Look there."

Booker followed her pointing finger to a ripple in the air, close to the ground at the bottom of the courtyard. On the other side of the Tear, a water main had burst, and the ensuing geyser had created a deep puddle that would cover a good third of the sunken plaza. It was near enough to another cluster of Shock Jockey crystals that the electricity might arc to it if the timing was right.

"Got it," Booker shouted down to her. "You gonna be okay?"

Even at that distance, the unimpressed look she gave him was clear as day. "I'll manage somehow. See if you can lure it over there!"

"Great." Booker heaved a sigh of the utmost weariness, which was utterly lost on the girl; then he shouldered the rifle and crawled his way along the edge of the scaffold. Another lobbed brick broke apart at the automaton's heel and it turned, away from Elizabeth and towards the plaza— and Booker. Its position on the balcony now rendered it elevated enough to see him, and with another enraged couplet, it began unloading its Gatling gun in his general direction. The scaffold under his feet began to splinter and tilt; cursing, Booker hurled himself off the edge, catching the lip of the next trestle over with his skyhook. He hung by fingertips and steel for a moment, until the wheel of the hook gave a turn and he lost his grip, flipping backwards over a strut and landing painfully on his back on a canvas-piled crate a good eight feet below. He lay there, blinking stupidly and trying to remember how to breathe, until the green-and-purple splotches stopped swimming and sparking in front of his eyes. Then he sat up, groaning, and assessed his situation.

He'd landed not far from the Tear, and his unintentional diversion had proved effective: the Patriot was rattling towards him with alarming speed.

"In savage man– Comstock puts his his his sword– in way of danger– Columbia!" it announced.

"Yeah, that's great," Booker said. He was shaking and sore, his leg felt as if it had been dipped in acid, and his right shoulder had the hot dull ache of a dislocation; he doubted he could hold his own against this thing for more than a minute or two at most.  _Come on, Elizabeth...!_

And, God bless her, the girl delivered. There was a great shuddering  _crack_  and a rush of air, and water flooded into the courtyard, lapping at the brass feet of the approaching automaton. Just as the crank of its gun began to turn again, the water hit the cluster of purple crystals. With a deafening snapping sound and the scorching scent of ozone, lightning arced out in all directions, lacing across the surface of the lake and coursing up and down the Patriot's surface. It jerked spasmodically, creaking and making an alarmed sort of squawking sound; then it exploded, sending cogs, bits of brass, and scraps of patriotically-colored fabric ricocheting in every direction. Booker covered his head with both arms as debris rained around him, and remained crouched atop the relative safety of his crate until the clatter of heels and a light touch on his arm alerted him to Elizabeth's presence. She was swaying a bit on her feet, her face fever-pale and her brow slick with sweat, but she wasn't bleeding, and her hands were steady as she pulled him to his feet.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," she said. "Now I only feel like I'm ill, rather than dying."

"That's, uh, reassuring. You sure you're all right?"

She looked him up and down. "You're asking me? You're the one who was just shot."

"I've had worse4."

It was amazing how fearsome a seventeen-year-old girl could be when she put her mind to it. "Sit."

Booker sat. Elizabeth crouched and put her hands over the ragged, puckered crater just below his knee, then yanked them apart. When the dizziness cleared, the only remnant of the wound was a thick pink scar; but his trousers were still sticky with blood, and Beth staggered and nearly fell. Booker caught her and propped her back upright. The shadows under her eyes had reappeared, he noticed, and they stood out black in the dusk.

"Hey, you sure you should be doing this? I mean, not that I ain't grateful, but you look about as good as I feel."

"I just... need to practice," Elizabeth said, but she sounded faint.

"Yeah, but maybe don't do it when we've been running around getting shot at all day."

"Works for me. Let me know the next time we're not being shot at." She took a tentative step forwards, and when she didn't fall over, began skirting around the puddle of water towards the stairs at the opposite end of the plaza. Booker followed, staring curiously at the automaton as he passed. Without its head, it looked a little forlorn.

"I'd love ten minutes alone with the inventor of that thing," he muttered, glaring at the ridiculous contraption with contempt. How jaded he was already, he thought, that a gigantic clockwork likeness of the first American president had shot at him, and the first thing he'd found odd about that was that it only spoke in verse.

The sooner they got out of Columbia, the happier he'd be.

There didn't seem to be all that much in the Hall of Heroes' adjacent wing: just a collection of oddly-shaped items completely obscured by covers of burlap. One tarp had been ripped off, revealing crates full of the violet Shock Jockey bottles. The place must be used for storage, then, or an exhibit that hadn't yet been finished. Booker picked one of the bottles up and turned it over in his hands. Opening it was going to have to wait, however, because there, leaning against one of the sackcloth-covered objects and surrounded by a ring of dead officers, was Slate.

It appeared that one of the Columbian forces had done for him at last. One hand clutched at a gaping wound in his lower abdomen; the other rested on the floor, a pistol slipping from his slackened fingers. Blood dripped sluggishly from a corner of his mouth, and his eye was closed, but he breathed. When Booker crouched down before him, Slate's eye snapped open, dull with pain, but clear.

"You're not done here, soldier," he coughed. His fingers twitched against the grip of the pistol. "Eat everything that's on your plate! Finish it!" Weakly, he raised his hand and offered the gun to Booker.

He almost didn't take it. From outside the hall sounded the roar of airships: Comstock's reinforcements would be on them in minutes. After everything the man had put them through, it would be so easy to just turn, to just walk away and let the Prophet's dogs have him. But Booker had been a cruel man, and had seen what happened when he was. He'd let it happen it to Anna, and to the housewife after the House of Zealots; he was not going to do the same to Beth.

The little firearm was cold against his palm.

"Elizabeth," he said quietly, "look away."

For a moment, she stared blankly at him; then realization dawned across her face. "No– Booker, you can't—!"

"Letting him live, it... it wouldn't be no mercy. Comstock'd take him, and make certain he didn't die for a long while."

Elizabeth must have caught the meaning of that in his tone, because she swallowed a sob, nodded once, and turned to face the wall, covering her ears with her hands.

Slate smiled when the barrel of the pistol touched his forehead. "They haven't changed you, Booker," he said, as if that were some manner of praise. The way he said it, Booker could almost believe that it was. "Not... one... bit."

The hall rang with the sound of the gunshot, and Beth started violently and gave another dry sob. Booker went to her and hovered for a moment, doubtful that there was anything he could say. Finally she took a deep, shuddering breath and looked up at him. Her eyes were red, but dry, and her brow was set in determination.

"Let's get out of this place," she said. "Comstock's men will be here at any minute."

They fled, two shadows flitting through the gloom of the hall. When the green-coated officers arrived shortly thereafter, filling the hall with light and the tramp of boots, there was nothing there but a tired old soldier, dead with a smile on his face.

...

The flight down from the Hall of Heroes was a silent, exhausted one. It was not even full dark yet, but the journey through the museum felt as if it had lasted a year. Opening multiple Tears in a row had taken a lot out of Elizabeth, and while she'd healed his leg, Booker's dislocated shoulder now felt thick and full of liquid fire. From the skyline, he could see that the  _First Lady_  had already docked at the floating aerodrome for the evening; they wouldn't be going anywhere tonight. They were going to have to find somewhere to bunker down and rest.

Soldiers' Field was utterly abandoned when they returned to it. There were new bodies scattered around, though: many Columbians, and a few in ragged reds that Booker had never seen before. Most of the newcomers were dark-skinned; the few that were fair were red-haired and freckled. On the window of a darkened bar were scrawled the words " _The Vox Populi Reclaim This Place!_ " in what Booker truly hoped was bright red paint. He primed the shotgun, nerves jangling, but the silent arcade contained nothing but corpses.

He prowled through the gathering dark with Elizabeth at his back, but soon it became too dim to go on, even with the brilliant stars glittering too close overhead. The hotel they had passed on their journey up to the museum was as deserted as the rest of the arcade, and he made for it warily. The doors and windows had been smashed, and the bar on the ground floor had been torn apart; more Vox bodies slumped at a table amidst a blizzard of scattered cards. The building was clear, though, and Booker had no qualms about directing Elizabeth to pick the lock of the corner suite while he stood guard. It would do them both a world of good to get some proper sleep, and the mordant feeling in his shoulder was beginning to spread to his arm. He couldn't ask it of the girl to open another Tear to heal him, but the injury would still need to be tended to, and soon.

The suite was all creamy wallpaper and glossy dark wood. As expected, it was as deserted as the rest of the resort. Booker collapsed gratefully onto the plush loveseat in the sitting room while Elizabeth went in search of something resembling food. The stab of pain when he reached around with his opposite hand made him dizzy, but it couldn't wait. The faster he dealt with it, the faster it would be over. He gritted his teeth and yanked the ball of his shoulder backwards with a short sharp jerk; the joint realigned itself with an agonizing click. For a moment he feared he was going to pass out, but the light-headedness cleared quickly enough. He'd have to bind it up if he wanted it to heal properly, but the sharp stabbing pain was already receding to a dull, throbbing ache. He'd live for now.

It wasn't until Elizabeth came clattering back into the parlor that he realized he must've given some cry of pain; he looked up and grinned at her, ashen-faced and shaky, and she gave him a sour look.

"I thought something terrible had happened! Are you all right?"

"Like I said, I've had worse. Field medicine ain't exactly glamorous."

Elizabeth sighed and slumped herself against the wall opposite him, tracing an absent pattern over the cream-and-gold stripes with one finger. Booker stood up, flexing his shoulder and wincing, and crossed the room to her.

"You holdin' up okay?"

"I could be better," she admitted quietly, but then hastened to add, "but I could be back in my tower, and even knowing what it's like out here, I would trade that for... whatever  _this_ is... in an instant."

"It was that bad, huh?"

Elizabeth looked away, a distantness about her as if she was seeing something besides the fancy hotel room. "Rosalind was always kind to me. And Songbird... he was my jailer, but he was my guardian. They cared for me, but they were the only faces I ever saw. Everyone else was forbidden from speaking to me. And there were—" She broke off abruptly and doubled over, wrapping her arms around herself. "–They did– I—"

With a feeling like being doused in icy water, Booker recalled the signboard next to the horrible device in Monument Island. '... _Do NOT Approach the Siphon While Specimen is Being Drained._ ' He didn't really know quite what that entailed, but couldn't figure it was anything approaching pleasant; and he couldn't recall ever hating anyone as much as he despised the Prophet in that moment.

"—I don't remember," Elizabeth whispered finally, straightening up. But she wouldn't look at him, and the distance in her eyes remained. She did remember, or had a notion, and that was just as obvious as how much she wanted to forget it. "So, yes, Booker, it was 'that bad'."

All at once New York stopped mattering. Samuels, Paris, the Twins: none of it meant anything, as long as he could get his hands around Zachary Comstock's bearded neck. He'd seen horrors,  _done_ horrors, and none of that came close to the things that had been inflicted upon this earnest teenage girl. And yet she still managed to be as cheerful and curious as you please, when here he stood, stewing in his own self-pity and getting a whole lot of bystanders killed for it. It had to stop. No more people were going to die on his account. First thing tomorrow, they'd be off to New York to make sure Samuels wasn't going to throw a fit – and he still had to tell her about that, Lord, what was he even going to  _say_? – and then Paris like he'd promised, and anywhere else the girl wanted to go, as long as it was away from here.

"Booker, listen," Elizabeth said, making him jump. He'd been so lost in angry introspection that he'd forgotten entirely about everything around him. Something about her tone made him think that this was important, though, so he turned to her with some concern.

"What's wrong?"

"I just– I wanted to thank you for all you've done for me." She still leaned heavily against the wall, weary and drawn, but the smile she offered him shone like a beacon in dark water. He coughed and fidgeted, feeling incongruously awkward.

"'S just a job," he muttered, and Elizabeth abruptly broke eye contact, face growing downcast. "No, I– I didn't mean it like–aw, Hell." Booker slumped and looked at the girl sheepishly. "I just meant, you don't owe me nothing. None of the things that've happened have been on account of your actions. You don't gotta thank me for anything."

"I do," Elizabeth insisted, standing up straight once more and staring determinedly at a spot just above his left shoulder. "You've protected me, fought for me. You've  _killed_ to keep me safe, and while I'm not thrilled about that, I doubt there's another person in the city that would do so for my sake. Oh, the Prophet," she added bitterly, waving a hand, "but that's only because he wants a successor, a friendly image to show the crowds."

She heaved a sigh, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face. "I was just the girl in the tower, and you came along and rescued me like a knight in, well."Her smile grew faintly wry as she looked him up and down. "A knight in scruffy, somewhat tattered armor, I suppose."

"Gee, thanks," Booker started to say, but was cut off by Elizabeth suddenly reaching out, grabbing him roughly by the collar, and pulling his face down to kiss him.

There were a hundred things he should have done in that moment. He should have pushed her back, should have turned away, should have said gently,  _Come on, Elizabeth, you're just tired;_ said,  _It doesn't work like that, Elizabeth_ ; _No, come on, we've got to keep moving_ ;  _You're a lovely girl, but you barely know me_ ;  _I'm not for you—_

But Booker did none of these. He stood frozen, his mouth mashed awkwardly against hers, until she broke away, stammering and scarlet from her neckline to the roots of her hair; then, before she could continue apologizing, before he could stop and  _think_ about what he was doing, he had one arm around her waist and the other hand twined in her long dark hair, and pulled her back to him. She squeaked in surprise and fell against him, hands fluttering awkwardly before coming to rest upon his collarbone. Her fingers were cool, and she tasted like blood and salt and oranges, and he hadn't thought he was this far gone already but he had her pressed up against the wall, and now her arms were around his neck and every time he kissed her she sighed, and—

" _Shit_." Booker jerked back and reeled away, cursing himself up and down and back again. Idiot, idiot,  _idiot_! What the Hell was the matter with him?

Elizabeth was still flat-backed against the wall, flushed and panting slightly. She stared at him wide-eyed, her expression full of something like alarm. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You? Of course not. I could'a done better, though."

"What do you mean? Don't you like me?"

Booker could feel himself going as red as she was. He became suddenly fascinated with a whorl in the grain of the wallpaper. "Hell, Beth, after that display, I'd think that was obvious. But I can't be– I'm not– I'm not for you." The words didn't come easy, but he couldn't do this, to her or to himself.

"Don't say that! You're brave and funny, even if you say things that I don't always understand, and you're the only person I've ever met who's done anything for me without expecting something of it in return."

He felt like a criminal. This was why he hadn't told her about New York yet: because every time he thought she might understand, she went and said something like this. "You don't know me all that well, and that's for the better," he said, and it tasted leaden and melancholy coming out. "But one thing you oughta know is that everyone I've ever cared about is dead, and most of that is on my account in one way or another. So yeah, I like you a whole lot, but I don't want to be the one to hurt you."

"I can take care of myself, Booker."

"That much is obvious. One of the things I— Well. Maybe when we get to Paris, we can talk about this again. 'Til then, it'd be best if we just kept on as we have."

Elizabeth's smile was a bit downcast, but it was there. "I suppose I'll have to live with that. At least now I know I didn't make a total fool of myself. I know life isn't like it is in books, but this– this sort of thing happens so  _often_ that I assumed it was standard practice."

"Stick around me long enough and you'll learn there's no such thing," Booker said drily, and that made her laugh. He cupped the side of her face gently with one hand. "Chin up, kid. A few more days and we'll be free of this place."

Now only the barest trace of sadness remained in the set of her shoulders, and her smile was earnest and brilliant. Well, Booker was damned anyways; adding a few more immoralities wasn't going to make things any worse for him. He sighed and slumped, suddenly exhausted as all the day's hurts came rushing up on him. "Let's get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

Elizabeth paused at the door to one of the suite's two bedchambers and stared back at him, still with that soft little smile, for a long moment before disappearing. He gazed after her for a moment, trying to quiet his roiling thoughts, and then headed towards the other bedroom to sleep away his sins.

* * *

...

* * *

1\. As has already been established, Booker was no great believer. He had a vague notion that life was too consistently misfortunate for it to all be a coincidence, and that somewhere, some cosmic entity was sitting and laughing at him; but the notion of conception, even divine, being anything approaching 'immaculate' was entirely laughable, and he took similarly little stock in the tales of prophets and the like.  
All this being said, he was starting to think that, where Elizabeth was concerned, _anything_ was possible 2.

2\. He was right, too. Multiverse theory is a wonderful thing.

3\. It didn't even occur to him that the news of his old lover's suicide might have been the misinformation; his faith in the reprehensibility of the Prophet was now so secure that 'the benefit of the doubt' wasn't even an option.

4\. You don't suppose he'll ever tire of making oblique references to his past, will he? I can never tell when he's joking5.

5\. Between the bank job and that incident with the train, I'm inclined to err on the side of "he's usually serious". _Caution_ is not one of our Mr. DeWitt's better virtues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELP, I am sO SORRY for inflicting my terrible grasp of romance upon you, I am REALLY BAD. I hope you all enjoyed it/aren't too squicked out to continue, though, because coming up next is Hymn For a Betrayal - wherein Booker makes some terrible life choices (so what else is new) and Daisy is a BAMF (so what else is new).
> 
> Anyways, I'll have the next chapter out [ESTIMATED TIMEFRAME REDACTED], so don't give up! Constructive criticism is always welcomed, and again, thanks a million to everyone who sticks with this! Y'ALL LIGHT UP MY WORLD LIKE NOBODY ELSE~
> 
> ~P


	8. Hymn for a Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this. This is ANOTHER CHAPTER WITHIN A MONTH OF THE PREVIOUS ONE. WHAT WHAT WHAT HOW DID THIS HAPPEN (it happened because this chapter is like half the length of the last one whOOPS)
> 
> Not a lot to say today! Just the usual standard enjoy the chapter, you guys rock, so does my beta, etc., etc. Also thank you so much to everyone who commented! I know I'm really terrible about replying consistently, and I'm sorry -- but know that I read and appreciate every single one!
> 
> (On a tangent, if there are words that should have spaces between them but don't, that's a formatting issue that occurs when I convert the document from .docx to rich text. I try to go through and correct all of them, but it happens a lot, and I apologize. If you see any, let me know, and I'll fix them.)

_"_ _Thus with my lips have I denounced you,  
_ _while my heart, bleeding within me,  
_ _called you tender names."_  
—Kahlil Gibran

**CHAPTER EIGHT:** _Hymn for a Betrayal._

 

JULY 10, 1912

It took Booker several bleary minutes to realize what was wrong.

Then it came to him: he was in a bed, and he was comfortable, and nobody was trying to kill him. He hadn't even dreamed of the Twins, or of Anna, or of burning cities – or of anything particularly bizarre or disquieting, for that matter. It was a strange sensation.

He'd been lying facedown on top of the ivory satin duvet, having apparently fallen asleep too quickly to even take his boots off; now he propped himself up on his elbows and groggily surveyed his surroundings. Weak gray light filtered in past the gauzy curtains of the Soldiers' Field hotel, and through the gap in the gently-shifting fabric he could make out a thick wall of fog, drifting past the tangle of roses that filled the exterior window-box. There was no sign of activity beyond, but in this mist, that meant less than nothing. Booker grimaced and levered himself the rest of the way upright in order to cross to the window and stare out into the murky gray. It didn't reveal much. Fog was even worse than snow, as far as he was concerned; it muffled everything, so that someone you thought was dead ahead could in fact be three yards to the right, and there'd be no way of knowing until it was too late.

With any luck, though, he wouldn't have to fight through it. A few hours from now and they'd be long gone on their way to Paris, and well shut of this—

_New York. Not Paris. You have to go to New York._

He could fend off Samuels, and with these new vigors, he might be able to fend off Delaney's gang; but their arms were long, and he'd seen enough of Comstock's bloody-minded persistence to figure that the Prophet wouldn't have any qualms about sending the whole damn city on a hunt for its missing Lamb. Booker could take on one, and maybe the other, on a good day, but he really didn't want to have to deal with all three of them. Samuels, at least, was a potential ally, but something told him the same wasn't true of Comstock.

He had to tell Elizabeth. There was nothing for it: it was now or never, and especially after the events of last night...

Booker sat down against the windowsill and ran his hands over his face. What had he been thinking? But for all that he cursed his loss of rationality, it was not as if his sanity had truly fled him. He'd known exactly what he was doing and he'd done it anyways. Elizabeth had gotten it into her head that the girl in the tower was supposed to fall for the first man who came along and rescued her – and could he blame her? She was a kid who'd learned everything she knew about the world from books – and he'd happily gone along with her, because he was, what?  _Attracted_  to her? Jesus.

He'd known all along that he was a dirtbag, even accepted the notion with no small amount of amusement, but this was taking it a bit too far. In a way, the swell of guilt washing over him was reassuring, familiar. His life was a cavalcade of bad decisions; as long as he kept making them, it wasn't over yet.

But the way she had  _sighed_ —

"Booker?"

He jumped. Elizabeth had opened the bedroom door a crack and was peering through it, her eyes fixed on his shoes as if she found them utterly fascinating.

"You okay?"

"Of course," she said lightly. Her voice cracked on the second syllable. Booker looked at her critically.

"Really, now," he said. "How are you holding up?"

There was a short silence. "All I dream about is gunfire," she said, and now she looked at him. "But it's better than the Siphon." Her voice did not crack then, and her brows furrowed down in fierce conviction. Booker smiled a sad, sad smile.

"You get used to it," he said.

"Lord, I hope not." There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Then she brightened, her eyes going soft and distant, a smile forming. "But it's going to be over soon! How long do you think it will take for us to get to Paris from here?"

Booker shifted uncomfortably. "I'm not sure," he said. "We have to figure out where Columbia is first."

"Well, it'll take all the longer if you continue to stand there looking sorry for yourself! Come on!"

All the girl's enthusiasm had bubbled back into her at the thought of reaching Paris at last. She skipped across the room, thrust his bag into his hands, grabbed him by the arm, and began propelling him towards the door. She seemed to be resolutely not talking about their ill-advised dalliance, and he wasn't going to bring it up if she wasn't, so he allowed himself to be pulled from the suite, out into the misty morning.

They headed out into the deserted resort, fine droplets swirling in their wake. Booker practically had to trot to keep up as Elizabeth hurried down the wooden boardwalks. Her sudden good cheer was slowly rubbing off on him, but he could see even so that it was a scab over the shock and terror of the past few days. She'd have the nightmares for a while yet, but they'd fade, and if she was lucky, they'd stay that way.

Silence was the antidote to optimism, though, especially when it was brittle and new like this. He sought about for a subject with which to distract the both of them; finally, his curiosity won out. He'd been trying not to ask, but...

"So how exactly do you do, y'know, what it is that you do. The Tears?"

She looked at him with her head tipped to one side, biting her lip. "I always thought of them as doors," she said, after several seconds' careful consideration. "You know how I said I had plenty of time to read?"Here she stuttered to a stop, flushing bright pink, before continuing with a resolute effort of will: "W-well, I did everything I could to figure it out. I read literature on physics and other such things."

"And what did that teach you?"

There was a fire in her eyes now. It was as if she had actually been waiting for him to ask. "That there is a world of difference between what we see, and what is." She gestured broadly in front of her, indicating the clapboard storefronts of the deserted resort. "Imagine that the universe is made out of layers of onionskin1. This world is only one such layer, and there are dozens of others, all around it. If you put something heavy on the paper, it will bend, and eventually tear. The heavier the object, the bigger the Tear, and the more layers it disrupts."

Her hands danced in front of her as she spoke, her whole face alight with wonder. Booker had never seen her so enthusiastic, even when talking of Paris. It was beautiful.  _She_  was beautiful.

And she was staring at him expectantly. Waiting for an answer. Right. The job. The present. Okay. Right.

"I think I follow," he said, as if his long silence was entirely innocent, had merely been caused by his effort to figure out what she meant; then, unable to stop himself, he added, "So you're the 'heavy object'?"

The look she gave him could have curdled milk. Booker snickered at her.

"Perhaps that's not the best metaphor," Elizabeth said after a suitably pointed pause, rolling her eyes. "I don't truly create the Tears. As far as I could figure it, they're side effects of powerful occurrences: violence, intense emotion, actions that will significantly change the course of the future. I'm simply able to look through a Tear to find a universe that fits what I need. It's– difficult to explain."

"No, I get it. I think. That's one Hell of an ability." He trailed off.  _I can see why the Prophet would want to lock you up_ , he thought, but was fortunately smart enough not say. It was the slightest bit terrifying, the notion of Elizabeth being able to reach through existence itself to change whatever she willed on a whim. He was quickly learning that the world was a vaster place than any ship or train could ever show, but this was on a whole other level entirely. She was still the girl he thought he was beginning to know – nothing could change that – but to think that she could change the course of history without a backwards glance was just the slightest bit alarming, to say the least.

And this was what he was going to betray. Booker opened his mouth, shut it again. Unease radiated off of him, and before he knew it the interminable silence was returning. Elizabeth walked more slowly, fiddling with the cage around her neck and scrutinizing every building they passed with a hunted expression. It was just beginning to become unbearable when they rounded a corner and found themselves, at last, before the gondola that would take them to the  _First Lady_.

The area was as deserted as the rest of the resort, but Booker hadn't come this far to get complacent now. He pulled the shotgun from his bag, checked the breech, slid new pellets into place; then he carefully spilled embers in their wake for any potential pursuers to trip over. This precaution taken, he proceeded to the bulbous red receptacle that would send power from the Shock Jockey crystals to the gondola a quarter-mile above.

Elizabeth was dancing in place with anxiousness, fiddling with her cameo and biting her lip. Booker watched her with a heavy, hollow feeling blossoming in his ribcage. As soon as they were in the gondola, he'd tell her. No more dallying, no more excuses. He had to at least try to explain himself. She'd earned that much, and maybe she'd hate him for a while, but when she met Samuels she'd see that it was for the better. Then they'd go to Paris, just as he'd promised, and it would all be over.

"Booker, come on, what are you waiting for? You haven't lost the vigor, have you?"

"After all the trouble we went through to get it?" He pulled out the violet bottle, stoppered with its silver lightning bolt, and regarded it cautiously, wondering what it was going to do to him this time. There was nothing for it, though; if he delayed any longer, Elizabeth was going to fidget right off the edge of Columbia. He pulled the cork free and took a reluctant drink.

He barely had time to register icy cold and the taste of blackberries before a force like a freight train hit him square in the chest. He'd been shocked before, especially when he was still learning his way around a switchboard, but this was different. It was like being sucker punched by a bull elephant, or seized into the air and then slammed very hard back into the ground. Lacy blue-white lightning flickered across his skin, and crackling purple crystals grew from his knuckles and palms, sending spasms of force through his whole body. He couldn't move— his ribcage ached and pounded in violent jerks— he seized uncontrollably, tasting metal—

And then, just as he began to fear his heart was about to stop, it was over. He stood still, staring down at his trembling hands, and breathed deeply for several long seconds.

Elizabeth watched him in concern. "Are you all right?"

"Fine– I'm fine," he said, still breathing hard. He straightened, ran a hand through his hair, scrubbed the blood from his face, and turned to grin brittlely at her. "Let's go."

It was simple enough to fill the bulb of the red tower with sparking crystals; then Elizabeth pulled the lever, and this time, off in the distance, the gondola began to descend. Beth gripped the city rail with both hands and bounced on the balls of her feet, willing the little red carriage to move faster.

"I see it! It's coming, it's coming!"

A roar, a hum, a shadow: one of the boat-shaped military flying machines swooped overhead, just above the level of the buildings. "Oh,  _no_ ," Elizabeth moaned, ducking down instinctively against the rail, all herfragile cheer shattered by the arrival of their pursuers. "No, not again—"

There was a figure clothed in black, poised upon the deck of the airship among the Columbian officers. "He will abandon you, my sweet Elizabeth," it cried. "Once he has what he needs, he will cast you aside! What else can you expect from a liar and a killer of women?"

The remark should not have stung so, but it did, even now.

" _Comstock_." Booker glowered up at the Prophet's soaring carriage with narrowed eyes, wondering if the man's prescience extended far enough that he'd be able to duck a him, Elizabeth straightened up and stuck out her chin defiantly, her arms folded across her chest. Her voice broke on her first effort to speak, but she set her shoulders and tried again.

"Prophet– Father– whomever you are! I'm leaving, and there's nothing you can do to stop me!"

Comstock's laugh sounded distorted and choppy through the airship's microphone. "Oh, sweet child," he said, "that's where you're wrong."

Booker had been very careful to cover their retreat, and the fuzzy fires behind them still flickered along the boardwalk's whitewashed planks. But he hadn't considered that the Prophet might have their advance guarded as well, and so the Patriot automaton that stepped from the arriving gondola was able to do so unhindered.

"Shit shit shit  _shit_ —!" Booker dove to one side and Elizabeth to the other as Gatling rounds rattled across the courtyard. Bullets hove through the smoldering vigor traps, which sent up gouts of sticky fire before fading away into nonexistence. Perhaps heartened by this display, a dozen or so soldiers dropped from the hovering ship and advanced upon the jetty, springing the remaining traps as they came.

Remembering the Hall of Heroes, Booker rolled over onto his back and sent a sharp bolt of lightning at the automaton. It hit home, and the Patriot froze, shuddering and sparking; but the vigor lasted only a few moments, and then the metal monster resumed its implacable course.

Booker cursed and ran, fitting his hand into his skyhook as he pelted down the boardwalk. There were dozens of sky-lines arching over the buildings, and now Comstock's troops were pouring down them, dropping onto the rooftops all around. Three more of the flying boats had arrived as well. It made sense that now, when they were so close to their goal, the Prophet would try all the harder to stop them, but Booker had still almost hoped that they'd be able to get away unhindered.

A firecracker whistled past him and demolished a round information kiosk. He skidded to a stop, cursing, and looked back. A troop of soldiers had flanked the automaton, and one of the flying machines hovered above them, manned by the one who'd fired the rocket; there would be no escaping that way. If he'd had another pool of water, or some way to fortify the Shock Jockey's charge... but he could see none of the jittering ripples that marked the presence of a Tear, and before him were only buildings.

Booker had no time to deliberate. He armed the skyhook and jumped, and the magnetic force caught him and dragged him into the air, slamming him into the sky-line in a shower of sparks. He sailed over the resort town, searching for a vantage point and finding none. A soldier heading the opposite way swung out wildly at him, and without thinking, Booker grabbed the man's wrist and yanked, jerking him roughly free from the sky-line and sending him on his screaming way down, down towards the World Below2. The motion swung him over to the soldier's line, which came to an end at a docking bay above a large grocery, relatively safe now that its occupant was making an express trip back to sea level. Booker dropped heavily down onto the planks behind a large stack of crates. Only then did it occur to him to think about Elizabeth; she'd taken care of herself so well in the Hall of Heroes that he'd forgotten, in his haste, that he'd taken back his Springfield, leaving her entirely defenseless. He searched the streets below him wildly and did not see her; cursing himself, he bent to leap back onto the sky-line when a sudden current of frigid air made him pause.

Elizabeth had followed him onto the rails, and alighted upon a balcony about a dozen meters away. Her arms were flung wide, and wind swirled around her, flapping her skirts and pulling her hair loose from its ribbon. The Tear above her looked out into opaque pewter clouds, and they churned and thrashed as she pulled them through. As he watched, she caught his eye and shouted his name.

"Booker!  _Lightning_!"

It took the barest moment for him to figure out what she meant; then understanding dawned, and he would have grinned if he'd had the time. He cupped his palms together, focusing on the gritty half-real clouds and on the multitude of metal rails that arced in all directions, and let a crust of purple-black gemstones spread across his skin until the very air around him stank of ozone and scorched metal.

On its own, the newest vigor, while quite potent against human foes, was hardly up to the challenge of stopping a seven-foot-tall steam-driven George Washington for more than a few seconds. When directed at a brewing stormcloud, on the other hand, it proved to be satisfyingly effective. There was a muted crack of thunder, accompanied by a strobing cascade of light, and the Patriot exploded into a thousand chunks of scorched, sparking brass and charred scraps of fabric. Its phalanx of soldiers dived out of the way, but a few were too slow: several were slammed backwards by the blast and did not get up again, while another clutched at the ruin a shard of metal had made of his eye, screaming and stumbling about until he finally hit the railing, flipped backwards over it, and plummeted out of sight.

Gently, quietly, it began to rain.

Booker looked at Elizabeth. Elizabeth looked at him. He grinned, widely, properly, the way it felt as if he hadn't for far too long, and hurled himself over the edge of the elevated bay. He was promptly followed by a group of Comstock's men, who dropped onto the rails from somewhere above, swinging haphazardly in their haste to catch up with him. Hastily, he let himself down to another roof and crouched there, temporarily hidden by the taller buildings on either side, tracking the men's progress and thinking hard.

"Elizabeth, you clear?" he shouted, in what he thought was her general direction.

Her head appeared over the lip of the storefront opposite. "I'm here! What do you need?"

"Just– stay put a minute."

The soldiers would be on them in seconds. Booker threw a handful of crystals at the sky-line, where they clung and spread like rot across the wet metal. There was a rending, singing  _crack_ ; the lines fizzed and shuddered, and the air filled with the stink of burnt steel and scorched flesh. The soldiers' bodies fell limply from the lines to break upon the street, or tumble out of view over the edge of the world. Booker staggered suddenly as a rush of dizziness swept over him. He'd forgotten the toll rapid vigor use had on him.

He didn't see Beth vault over the edge of the roof and come floating down the cleared rails towards his perch, but suddenly she was there, kneeling in front of him with furrowed brow.

"What do you need?"

"How many—?" He gestured vaguely down towards the street. He couldn't find the air to finish the question, but the girl understood.

"Several with those machine guns," she said, "and the airship with the rocket launcher. Comstock's long gone, of course." There was such venom in her voice that Booker jerked his head up at her in alarm. It wasn't as if she had no cause for it, but she was such an amiable creature that he'd begun to think that such malice was beyond her.

Well, even so, he couldn't say he blamed her. "Damn. I'd... wanted to kill him before we left here."

"I suppose we'll just have to cope with the disappointment somehow." She shoved a lock of damp hair out of her face and craned her neck to peer out over Soldiers' Field again. "They're getting closer."

Booker looked. His head was still swimming, but he counted six officers, fanning out through the streets as they searched for their quarry's refuge. The armored airship was nowhere to be found.

"Any... any more tricks you think you could pull?"

But Elizabeth shook her head. "It's getting easier," she said, "but there must still be a Tear in the area for me to use. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Booker levered himself upright and waited for his head to stop spinning. He didn't think he'd be using any of his vigors any time soon, even with the bitter-salt medicines stashed in his bag. He did still have his Springfield, and the shotgun from the station, but he lacked the energy to go waltzing out into the field again, not yet. His shoulder ached, and his head felt heavy and thick. He was so tired.

"Hey!" someone shouted. "Up there!"

"False Shepherd!" cried someone else. Gunfire cracked across the narrow streets as the remaining soldiers turned to fire at them. Booker staggered back out of the way, hunching up against the wall of the higher building adjacent to theirs. Elizabeth crouched down next to him.

"What do we do?"

His smile felt thin and tenuous. "Haven't you learned yet? Somethin' stupid," he said.

Beth rolled her eyes. In a tone of deepest long-suffering, she said, "It's a true wonder you've survived this long." Quickly she turned and, with somewhat more force than was perhaps necessary, kissed him on the cheek. He started and turned to stare at her. "For luck," she said, and there was a barely-repressed quirk to her lips, like she was enjoying some private joke.

Booker just blinked at her stupidly for a second while lead and splinters showered all around them. "Thanks," he managed finally, and was rewarded with a smile. He stood and took a deep breath, then ran and jumped, connecting to the sky-line in a shower of sparks. He was carried swiftly upwards, towards a higher rooftop and out of the immediate line of fire. The men on the ground, perhaps made wary by the fate of their compatriots, raced after him on foot. When he alighted on the tarred roof of the confectionary to which the sky-line was used to deliver goods, they surrounded the building, and a buzz behind him announced the approach of the rocketeer's flying boat. Exhausted, battered, and sore, Booker found himself grinning. Seven to one, and one of them with a gunship: those were the sort of odds he could work with5

As the gunship fired, he hurled himself to one side, unable to repress a sharp grunt of pain as his weakened shoulder hit the shingles. He rolled down the gently-slanting roof, scrambled to his feet, and pushed off, landing clumsily on the airship's deck just in time for the rocketeer to slam a heavy fist into his sternum. He choked and doubled over, seeing stars; above him, the man was maneuvering the ungainly cannon into position. It was mounted on his back, with the barrel extending over his shoulder, presumably was so that the gunner could brace himself against the massive recoil. As a whole, it presented a very nicely precarious assemblage.

Still winded, there was no way Booker could get to his feet in time; instead, he rolled over and kicked out hard. The sole of his boot made square contact with the rocketeer's shin with a satisfyingly audible  _crack_. The man buckled to one knee, but did not fall, and seemed determined to rise again. Still, he was unbalanced just enough for Booker to stagger upright, take him by the shoulders, and shove. The rocketeer plummeted some thirty feet to the ground below, landing on his back and thus on top of the large brace of explosives to which he was attached. The resulting combustion was truly spectacular, a cloud of orange black smoke and showers of incongruously dainty fireworks roiling out in all directions.

The hard part over with, Booker took command of the airship's mounted gun. To their credit, Comstock's men were brave and loyal: they put up a valorous effort to shoot him down and did not retreat, no matter how agonizingly obvious their hopelessness must have been. He hoped service to Comstock had been everything they'd imagined.

He wasn't sure how to land the airship, so he just abandoned it, jumping from its deck to the roof of the confectionary to the nearest sky-line, and landing on the rubble-strewn street not too far from the gondola station. Elizabeth ran to meet him, somber and pale.

"I'll be very glad when this is all well behind us," she said.

"Agreed," said Booker. His brief rush of adrenaline was quickly fading, the crippling tiredness sinking into his shoulders once more. He stowed his weapons and passed a hand over his eyes, careful not to let Beth see how badly it was shaking. The gondola sat at the dock innocently, still surrounded by the wreckage of the automaton; he had her wait onshore while he checked to make sure there were no further surprises waiting in the cabin. This being confirmed, he beckoned her on board and at last, at last, pulled the switch that would take them to the airship home.

It was, he thought, an unnecessarily slow ride from Soldiers' Field to the  _First Lady_ 's aerodrome. It couldn't have been much more than a quarter of a mile, but the little carriage ascended with aggravating lethargy. Booker paced incessantly back and forth across the cabin, wracking his mind for a way to broach the subject of their imminent detour to New York; Elizabeth sank back against the wall and leaned there, pale and shell-shocked.

Several minutes passed in silence. Then Elizabeth looked up. "What Comstock said about you..."

Booker stopped dead. He wanted to look at her, but something stopped him. "You're gonna ask me if it's true?"

"I don't doubt that, in Comstock's mind, it is," she said. "I'll reserve judgement on whether or not his assessment was accurate. But... when we fell out of my tower and landed on the beach, you called me by a different name. 'Anna'." She glanced up at him and immediately away again. "Who was she? Was that who she meant?"

He'd started to think that he was past this, that maybe now, after all these years, he could start to forget, or at least to pay back the things he'd done. But every time the notion came to him, something else would remind him quite firmly of why he never would. He found his shoulders tensing, and tried, unsuccessfully, to force himself to relax.

"I don't want to talk about it."

Elizabeth flinched at his tone and stared pointedly away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

More silence. Several times, Booker opened his mouth to speak only to shut it again, unsure of what he'd been planning to say. They were about halfway to the aerodrome now, and slowly gaining speed.

"You never did tell me where you're from," Elizabeth said abruptly. She still wasn't looking at him. Under any other circumstances, he'd have been grateful for the subject change; but of course she had to pick that particular topic.

Well, it was past time anyways. Booker stuffed his hands in his pockets and glared out the window as if it had personally offended him. "New York," he said.

"And you were a detective there, you said."

"Of a sort. The Pinkertons are, well. Not what you'd call the most respectable of lots."

"Well, it's a fine thing you came to Columbia when you did."

Booker shuffled uncomfortably. She just had to make this all the more difficult, didn't she? "What'd you think I come here for? My health? I was sent here to spring you by a man I owe more than I'd ever care to." He paused, shaking his head ruefully. "Turns out the New York mob don't take kindly to people poking around in their business, especially when those people owe them a considerable amount of money."

Elizabeth was studying him intently. "I see," she said, after a moment. "And how exactly did I come into this equation?"

He was walking on thin ice now. "Because Samuels figured that, in the hands of that Prophet, you'd make all kinds of a danger to every vice he holds dear to his ratty little heart. I'm starting to think he wasn't entirely wrong. Either way, he wants to assure himself that you're not a threat."

Elizabeth's smile was colder than he'd ever seen it. "I am a threat," she said.

He shifted again, his discomfort now of a rather different sort. "Yeah, well, better not let him know that."

There was a cheerful  _ding_  and the gondola came to rest at its dock atop the  _First Lady_ 's aerodrome. Booker stepped out after the girl, mulling this over. She'd taken it surprisingly well, which probably indicated that he'd done something wrong, or missed some sort of cue. Still, it would be better to be en route before he made another attempt. At least in the air, she wouldn't be able to run away.

The little island was mercifully deserted. The ticket stand had been abandoned with the radio left on, and a sawhorse had been erected in front of the lift, informing them that the airship was closed to visitors. He vaulted over this and punched the button to ascend; a minute and a half later, they finally stood out on the gangplank that would let them onto the  _First Lady_. Elizabeth galloped down it at top speed, mindless of the fact that there was nothing but a five-mile drop to either side of her. Booker proceeded more carefully, spinning the airship door's valve lock firmly shut before even turning to inspect the interior.

It was a plush, lavish compartment, all walnut paneling and crimson brocade. Plump couches sat under the windows, providing a place for passengers to sit and survey the scene below them; some lady or other had forgotten her purse between the cushions. A heavy table sat in the middle of the cabin, and racks of rolled-up maps lined the walls. A gold statue of Comstock was nestled into a niche halfway down the cabin. Elizabeth was dancing in place before a plinth of controls at the bow, an almost hysteric energy about her. Booker studied the rack of levers and dials, strewn with wrenches, drivers, and loose screws, trying to make sure he wouldn't blow the damn thing up on the first try. It seemed simple enough: those dials there set the heading, and that big brass-handled lever had to be the throttle; the pair of cords hanging from the ceiling controlled the airship's height, and there was only one thing the heavy oaken ship's wheel at the center of the panel could be for. He thumbed the numbered latitude and longitude wheels until he reached the heading for New York, and clenched the throttle gingerly. Beneath him, the  _First Lady_  thrummed to life with a deep shuddering roar and began to rise.

"I want to see Paris," Elizabeth said from the window, twirling about on the balls of her feet. "I want to see  _everything_!"

There was a knot between Booker's ribs that wouldn't go away. "You will," he said.

She heard the tone of his voice and came to peer curiously over his shoulder at the airship's controls. "Is there a problem? Perhaps I can be of some use; I'm– what are those?"

"What are what?"

Her voice had risen an octave in a matter of seconds. She stared up at him desperately. "Those coordinates. You do know where we're going, don't you? Because, because that isn't Paris, Paris is forty-nine north by two-point-three east—"

"How'd you know that?"

Suddenly she jerked her head away, going red. "I tried to convince Songbird to fly me there," she mumbled, sounding thoroughly embarrassed. "He would have none of it, of course. But–" the glare returned– "but that's not the point! Where is that? New York? It is, isn't it? You  _lied_  to me!" And she gave a great sob and buried her face in her hands, slumping onto her elbows against the rack of controls. Booker hovered next to her, alternating between irritation at her and at himself. He'd tried to tell her...!

He spoke as gently as he could. "Listen, Elizabeth..."

No answer; she gave a great gasp and sobbed harder. This was not how he had imagined this going6. "Come on," he said, "I tried to explain it to you, remember? If you'd've just  _listened_ —" But this wasn't her fault; it was his. He couldn't blame her for his own cowardice. "Look, we're still goin' to Paris! We just need to see Samuels first, show him the job's done so he don't come after us."

Elizabeth just kept sobbing. She slumped to the ground, bringing several of the scattered tools down around her in a series of painful clangs. Booker went over to her, unsettled to the extreme. She'd never cried like this. That first night out of the Tower, shell-shocked and stained with someone else's blood; when she'd found out about her parentage, or when Slate had been killed; even then, the most she'd given was a dry sob before rallying, resolute and determined. This utter, hysterical breakdown was beyond Booker's meager ability to rectify.

He crouched down beside her and put a hand on one shaking shoulder. "Elizabeth, can we please just talk about this? All we're doing now is—"

But he never got to tell her what they were doing. With sudden ferocious speed, Elizabeth grabbed for a fallen wrench and swung out with all her strength. The blunt curve of metal connected squarely with Booker's temple; he barely had time enough to register that the girl was much stronger than she looked before red-and-black shadows swarmed over his vision, eclipsing the world around him. 

* * *

1. **Onionskin** ( _noun_ ): a thin, lightweight, translucent glazed paper, used especially for making carbon copies.  
Just in case you were wondering.

2\. Hmm. He's begun to capitalize it, I see. Are you sure this isn't a universe where he goes native? I'm getting really very tired of those3.

3\. Even if it were, I wouldn't very well discuss it here, would I? Just let the story unfold4.

4\. Oh, you're no fun.

5\. Of course, the true savvy knows that the best sort of odds are one hundred — or, better, one million — to one; for those circumstances have a convenient habit of coming through in favor nine times out of ten.

6\. Which really begs the question of what he  _had_ been expecting. Really, brother, of all the people you could have chosen to break the cycle, it had to be  _him_ 7?

7\. You know very well why it did. Be patient; these things take time8.

8\. I suppose it's a good thing we're not  _on the clock_  then, wouldn't you say?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all aren't getting tired of Beth and Booker derping around refusing to resolve their Issues, because I'm sure not! We do get a breather, though, because up next is the one I have been waiting for since literally before I finished the game: **_A Chapter For Daisy_** _!_


	9. A Chapter For Daisy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO IT'S OFFICIALLY BEEN OVER A YEAR SINCE I STARTED WRITING THIS. DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, HELP ME. It also passed the 200 pages mark this chapter, so uh. if you had any doubt that this was going to be a fuckin doorstop, let me assuage that doubt here and now: THIS IS A FUCKIN DOORSTOP. 
> 
> HOWEVER, long periods between updates, overly wordy chapters, and sobbing over all of the characters aside, I promise you all: **I will finish this story**. I've never had so much fun writing a fanfic before, and all of the positive feedback I've been getting makes me so happy to be part of this fandom. I LOVE ALL OF YOU SO MUCH OKAY ;U;
> 
> ANYWAYS. SAPPY MOMENT DONE WITH. This is far and away my favorite chapter so far — Daisy is all sorts of fun to write, and I wish the executives hadn't fumbled her presence so badly. I feel like it was more because of time and logistics than anything, but I still think she deserved much, much more. Hopefully I can do her justice.

" _The sin of silence when they should protest  
_ _makes cowards out of men._ "  
—Abraham Lincoln

**CHAPTER NINE:** _A Chapter For Daisy._

 

JANUARY 5, 1896

_"You'd better run, girl– fast!"_

Daisy's bare feet scrabbled over the uneven cobblestones, her breath drawing ragged and metallic in her chest. The narrow alleys and wide promenades all looked the same,the townhouses and storefronts unforgiving in their uniformity; she had no idea where she was or how far she had come. From behind her echoed the sounds of pursuit, sometimes near, sometimes far, but never relenting. They would search for her, she realized with a sudden sick clarity, for the rest of her life.

She had to get off of Columbia. Barring that, she had to at least escape Emporia, and soon. She'd hardly been here a full year yet, and already the worst trouble she'd ever been in was bearing down upon her head. For a while, she'd thought that this place would be better, that she might be able to scratch out a life here. But it was no different, and kind old George would be taken in for letting her go, sure as a gun; if he wasn't beaten half to buried, he'd lose his position in Comstock House at the very least.

And Daisy'd run, like a coward, for she hadn't known what else to do. Turning around would do George no good now, though: he'd already let her slip away while the coppers went to collect up Mrs. Comstock's body, and turning herself in wouldn't change that. Better to make what he'd done for her worth something.

_"You'd better run, girl– fast!"_

His words pounded in her ears to the rhythm of her stinging, slapping feet. Another corner, another mad dash down an expanse of open street, another tumble into a shadowed doorway; Daisy slumped back against the faded wood and sat in the cold blue respite of the alcove, gasping for air. Several blocks away, the merciless tramp of boots continued, punctuated by harsh shouts made indistinct by distance. She was safe for the moment, but wouldn't be for long. She had to make a plan. She had to get out.

This area of town was not one she'd grown all that familiar with, but Mrs. Comstock – _and oh, Lord, all that blood_ – had sent her down here to do the grocery on occasion, and she thought there might be a gondola station nearby. Gondolas were, it was widely agreed, transportation for the common rabble; anyone who was anyone had their own personal dirigible to ferry them to and fro. Perhaps she could sneak or barter her way aboard without being identified, and—

"I think she went this way!"

The voices were closer now, too close. How had they gotten so close? Gulping down a wave of nausea, Daisy stood, steadying herself against the shuttered doorframe. She didn't know from which direction the shout had come, but the street to either side of her was clear for the moment. If she picked a direction, she could not trust that it would be one that would lead her to safety. There was only one option left open to her, then, and that was  _up_.

When she was still just a knob-kneed brat, Daisy had often been chided by her Ma for climbing on anything she could get her fat little hands around: tables, chairs, her Da, the mangy dog that skulked around the ghetto looking for scraps. She'd been bit once that way, her hand turning purple and fat like a rotted sausage; Ma had cut it open under her howls and let the thick yellow sick drain out, then drenched it in whiskey and bound it in linen to keep infection away, but the scars were still there. They ached dully as Daisy hooked her fingertips around the wide lintel of the shop window, planted her toes against the cool glass, and started to climb. She'd always been an agile girl, and now, at sixteen, her many years of hard work had already begun to settle into the muscles of her back and arms. Within seconds, she had cleared the ground story; by the time the olive-coated coppers came pouring into the street, she was nothing but a dirt-smudged shadow, disappearing over the crenelations of the roof and out of sight.

* * *

_JULY 12, 1895_

_"Daisy, girl! Get on down here when you've a moment to spare, would you?"_

_"Yes'm, right away."_

_Daisy picks herself up off her knees, tucks the chamois into the tie of her apron, and leaves off polishing the big Oriental vase at the nexus of the hallway, padding down the stairs to where Lady Comstock sits in the parlor. There's a silver tray of biscuits and honey on the coffee table, an open book discarded beside it. Daisy looks at the title, but it's a word full of 'V's and 'I's that she hasn't learned yet, and besides, she doesn't think it's the brightest idea to let on that she's learning to read. Stupid girls don't get noticed the way smart girls do, and smart colored girls get noticed far more than she has any wanting for. So she keeps her eyes down, ever the demure servant, and stands before the Prophet's wife with her hands clasped behind her back._

_"You need something, ma'am?"_

_Mrs. Comstock gives a weary smile. She looks drained and worn, with gray under her eyes. "Yes, Daisy," she says. "Zachary thinks I should eat, but my little Beth's made me quite fat enough already." She runs a hand across the top of her swollen belly, still smiling ruefully. "I don't suppose you could find a way to help me with these? I'd hate to see them go to waste."_

_She lifts the china plate and offers its contents to Daisy, who stares at her in shock. Mrs. Comstock's been courteous enough in the short week she's known her, sure, but never friendly like this. Her time is coming, very soon now – Daisy is a midwife's daughter, and it isn't hard to tell – so perhaps that's the cause for this shift in temperament. Or maybe Daisy just doesn't know her all that well yet. She's the strangest mistress she's ever had by far, that much is certain._

_"You sure, ma'am?"_

_"It'll be our little secret." Mrs. Comstock's eyes, blue as the morning sky, crinkle at the corners when she smiles. Daisy takes a biscuit from the platter cautiously. Experience has taught her that half the time this'll come around as a way for her to be blamed for stealing; but refusing an employer, for someone of her station, is just as bad. Mrs. Comstock keeps smiling, though, and it's not wicked but tired, empty and tired. Daisy takes a tentative bite out of the biscuit. It's flaky and soft and rich with honey, and just about the sweetest thing she's ever tasted._

_"Why, t-thank you very much, ma'am," she stammers, soon as her mouth isn't full, because her Ma taught her manners just like she were a proper lady. Her Ma taught her manners, but Daisy's long had a mouth on her and not always a brain to go with it, so without even thinking, she blurts out, "Beggin' your pardon, but can I ask you a question, ma'am?"_

_"Of course."_

_"You only married His Lordship last week, and now you're almost due with child. If it was me, I'd be rabbit-headed over something like that; ain't you afraid?" Then, realizing, she claps her hands over her mouth. "Oh, ma'am, I'm sorry, I shouldn't've asked, never mind my rambling, I'm so sorry—"_

_"Oh, hush," Mrs. Comstock says. "No matter what my husband tries to claim, you're nothing other than a human girl in a station to which you're ill-suited, same as I am. Don't you ever think you're anything less." A shadow passes over her eyes, but the smile stays locked on her face. When she speaks again, it is softly. "This is my first baby, you know; any girl ought to be a bit frightened the first time she has a child, don't you think? Mine's just coming sooner than normal, that's all."_

_But Daisy can tell that she's lying. She can tell by the lines around those young eyes and the shouting matches she hears at night; she can tell by the catch in the Lady's voice and the tremor in her hands. She is scared, and fair enough; she does a good job of hiding it, though, like Ma putting powder on her cheeks until you'd never have known she was bruised._

_"Sit down," Mrs. Comstock says, and Daisy does, carefully, a respectful distance away, perched upon the edge of the plump plush couch. They eat biscuits and honey together in the sun-drenched parlor of Comstock House, and Daisy, like the stupid girl she is, thinks that maybe she might have a place here after all._

* * *

JANUARY 28, 1896

There was an airship in Finkton needed a dockhand, and nobody thought much about the strong, slender girl in the torn-up ratty maid's uniform who showed up out of God's clean blue to take the position.

Daisy was fast finding that nobody thought much about any girl with skin darker than a sanded pine plank these days.

The ship was big, full-bellied, and it shipped tight-nailed crates from the factory district to the top of Columbia twice a day. Daisy didn't know what the crates held, and didn't care. She didn't get paid in aught but tokens, to be used at her employers' company store, but she didn't care. Her hands bled from a thousand splinters and the bottoms of her feet had gone hard and black as old leather, but she didn't care about that, either. For near on the past month, she hadn't cared much about anything. All her eyes could see was poor Lady Comstock tangled in the silken bedding, eyes wide and staring as her red, red blood soaked into the white scarf still wrapped round her shoulders. Her other hand had lain limp and palm-up upon the duvet, her fingers black from powder, the tortoiseshell pistol resting where it had fallen when the life left her. Daisy had picked it up, hardly knowing what else to do. She wasn't any kind of detective, but her first thought had been that this was His Lordship's fault somehow, that he'd killed his wife and made it look like she'd done for herself. But no, all the fuss he made about the holiness of his Lady, about how much Columbia loved her, how devout she was... the woman had been right all along, Daisy thought: long as you were Comstock's property, he'd never let you go.

The little leather book left open on the nightstand was stained with tears and flecks of blood. Daisy'd picked it up too, stared in blank shock at the looping words there. She could read proper-like now, big words and everything, though cursive like this was still hard for her. But she sounded out the last words that Mrs. Comstock had ever penned, because she owed her mistress that much. She hadn't understood all of what the Lady said, but one thing was plain as day and true as ever she had thought it might be: the Prophet was no holy man.

Daisy could've told her that much. She knew God was good, because Mama and the preacher told her so, and anything so ancient and wise as Him couldn't ever have wanted someone like Comstock to go around spreading His words. She'd always known Comstock was wicked, right from the start. Oh, she saw his power, saw his week-borne child and his prophecies, wasn't so stupid as to deny any of it; but there was power in this world that didn't come from any sort of holy place, and there was no doubt in her mind that this was from where Comstock drew his 'gifts'. The Devil'd take him and all men like him one day, but until then, people like her had to suffer for the sins of people like them.

This, Daisy knew, was because it would make reaching Heaven all the sweeter, but sometimes she still wished it didn't have to be so.

She had lingered too long there in the dancing beams of light, while Lady Comstock's blood dyed the silks around her red, until the valet Barney had come along and seen and dragged her off by her hair to lock her in the larder for murdering the First Lady. He'd run to the police and they'd come swarming into the grand house like flies, but kind sweet George, master of the kitchen, had let her out and told her  _go._

_"You'd better run, girl– fast!"_

Daisy wondered what had become of him. He was the only one besides Barney who'd had the key to the larder; there would have been no doubt that it was he who'd freed her. She hoped they'd ended his life quick, that he was dancing in the shadows of angels' eyes and not suffering in some dark cloister somewhere for the crime of human compassion.

So she stacked crates and lashed ropes and rolled barrels and pulled the splinters from her palms each night, and after a while her hands got calloused so the wood didn't shred them quite so terribly, and she saved up enough tokens to buy a proper pair of boots, sturdy and stiff enough to give blisters to a mountain. And she stacked crates and lashed ropes and rolled barrels, and she listened.

The world had always been a bitter place, but Daisy learned quick that it was bitterest down here in the shanties and the slums of gilt-edged Columbia. It was worse even than it had been in the Atlanta ghetto, but that didn't really sink in until the day she met Ayo.

It was common knowledge in Finkton that if you took the elevator back up out of Shantytown to the warren of tenements where you might actually find a roof that didn't leak at night, you'd try and go back down in the morning to find that your job had been taken by someone else. For that reason, most who worked there, Daisy included, just lived wherever there was space to stretch out. The ground was wet and rancid with trash, and she had a terrifying suspicion that the sores on her arms were from rats gnawing at her while she slept, but at least she kept her job, and nobody asked too many questions about who she was or where she'd come from. In the shanties, everyone had a story, and you didn't ask unless you wanted to risk getting a rusted shiv stuck through your eye.

So Daisy wallowed in filth with the poor folk, the dark-skinned and the almond-eyed and the fair freckled Irish, who seemed plenty like white people to her except that the 'true Americans' of Columbia despised them just the same. She walked through Shantytown at night with her feet bare inside her oversized boots, her hand clutching the sharpened fragment of a broken-off plank inside her jacket, because one time walking unarmed through the alleys had been one time too many. She made her way each night to her favorite alcove, an indent in the sheer brick wall of a wool factory, which was warm from the vents, and dry, and almost always unoccupied because the stink of lanolin was enough to make you heave up what little food you'd managed to find.

Only this time, it wasn't unoccupied. There was a man in it, slumped in the shadows atop her little nest of ratty blankets, breathing laboriously and clutching his side with one hand. The ground around him was wet from more than just leaking pipes, and the air was rich with the copper stink of blood. Daisy didn't think he'd be able to hurt her, but she tightened her hand round her shiv all the same.

"Who are you? What're you doing in my alley?"

When the man coughed, a slick of scarlet came out on his lips. "Weren't aware it was yours."

"Well, it is. I claimed it, an' I killed a man last week what tried to take it from me, so tell me why I shouldn't shank you here and now." This was a lie; she'd only cost him an eye with a well-aimed shard of tin, but he might have died of infection by now, so maybe it was true after all.

The man gave another feeble cough, this one with the barest hint of a laugh in it. "No need. Someone came and done it for you already." He shifted the hand covering his side, and Daisy saw ragged skin, slick with blood and showing slippery muscle beneath, through a tear in his patched canvas overcoat. She couldn't stop the intake of breath that hissed between her teeth at the sight of the grisly wound, but she did stop herself from asking what had happened; it didn't matter, and there weren't more than a few reasons it could have been anyhow.

Before she could consider how dangerous it was, she'd crouched down beside the man and lifted his hand aside, because Daisy was a midwife's daughter, and a little blood wasn't going to put her off of doing good where there was good to be done. He regarded her out of the corner of one contemptuous eye as she worked, but didn't reach for a weapon or for her, nor did he utter a word of protest. He just breathed raggedly in and out as he allowed her to strip off his coat and work shirt to get at the wound, watching her all the while.

"Why?" he asked her once, through gritted teeth, when she pulled out her grubby apron and yanked it around his ribs. She'd be docked the rest of the week's pay for it, but she didn't care about that, either.

"I don't know," she told the man, and it was the truth. "Name's Daisy."

"...Ayo," he said, and then gave a raw gasp and beat the ground with a weak fist when she tightened the knot of her makeshift tourniquet until the flesh beneath was waxy and pale. "Pleased t' meet you, I... I think."

He was silent after that while she worked, until finally the bleeding had stopped and he could sit upright again. He drifted off into a fidgety sleep soon after, and Daisy sat up watching him long into the night.

He was gone when she awoke to the frigid morning some hours later, but the blankets had been pulled up around her, and there was a fresh apple lying a few inches in front of her face. It was crusted with frost and its skin was smudged with dirt where it had been sitting, but it wasn't even bruised. It was so soon off the tree that it was still sour, even, and Daisy hadn't tasted anything so good since the day she'd shared biscuits with Mrs. Comstock half a year ago.

She'd thought that that would be the last time she'd see Ayo, but he returned to her alcove a little more than a week later, again wanting to know why she'd helped him.

"Because nobody else would've," she said, and he snorted, derisive and weary.

"Ain't that the truth."

He was a worker in the wool factory, she learned; at twenty-three, he was a few years shy of a decade her elder; he was from Georgia too, though he'd come from Savannah on a ship full of convicts leased to Comstock by the prison-master there; he'd been convicted of robbing a shop after the owner of the house where he'd worked tipped him enough to buy a nice suit all at once.

Daisy spat off the edge of the city when he told her that. They were on their lunch break, the only ten-minute stretch they were allowed all day, sitting on the dock with their legs dangling over the side.

"Something oughta be done about him," she said, meaning Comstock. She'd said such things before, to the other women she'd started sharing her little alcove with, but they'd all given her wide-eyed looks and shaken their heads like she'd gone and praised the Devil. Sheep they were, the lot of them, under a government full of wolves, and they'd bleat along with their little flock no matter how many of them got themselves ate. They disgusted her, Daisy realized: she despised them all, but she was barely more than a child, powerless and alone. Nobody would do anything about the wicked old Prophet, because they were too scared or too complacent to think for themselves, and those that weren't were too old or too young or too few.

So when Ayo stared hard at her with those sage-colored eyes and said, in nearly the most vicious tone she'd ever heard a man use, " _Exactly_ ," she almost fell right off the edge of the world.

"You mean it? You agree with me?"

"Why the Hell wouldn't I, girl?"

" _Pff_. No one else does."

It was Ayo's turn to spit. "They're all cowards, every last one of 'em."

"But they can't  _all_  be," said Daisy fiercely. His assent had rekindled a spark in her, one that had been slow-smoldering since she arrived in this God-forsaken city, and she would not be dissuaded. "You ain't, and I ain't, and there's thousands of us down here in the slums, and up there in the city, too, bein' trod on by all them rich folk. I'd bet up there, they're even angrier than us folk down here."

Ayo snorted. "Them turncoats helping Comstock and the white men live their posh little lives?"

"They're stuck every day in something they can't have. I was up there a while, 'til I got snatched for murderin' the lady of my house. I didn't, by the way, 'fore you start up with the asking."

"You should've," Ayo said.

"She done herself in first," said Daisy bitterly. "Maybe she ought've thought marrying Comstock through a little better."

He whistled. " _You_ the girl they say done in Mrs. Comstock? Hell, if I was you, I'd be taking all sorts of credit for it."

"She was all right. I don't think she was too pleased 'bout being married to the Prophet."

Ayo snorted. "I wouldn't want to be married to him, neither," he said, and she laughed.

Daisy had often thought long and hard before about how there ought to be a revolution, but that was the first time it occurred to her that she might be the one to start it.

For a long while, it was just her and Ayo. They had neither the means nor the resources to begin a full-scale rebellion, and they had to be careful of the people who might turn them in to Fink or the police in exchange for some extra coin. As the weeks passed, their friendship grew slower only than their hatred of the men who thought to own them. They met during their lunch breaks and after work was done, and stayed up talking into the small hours of the morning.

She laid with him once, when there was no sleep to be had and the night got so cold that their breath froze in the air. It never happened more than that single time, though: Daisy was grateful to Ayo and he was her only friend in the city, but she didn't quite think she really loved him, not that way; Ayo, meanwhile, professed to normally favoring menfolk, which was what had gotten him stabbed that distant night when first they'd met. That seemed right unnatural to Daisy at first, but after a while she decided that she could understand it after all, because she liked menfolk too. Besides, what someone did in their bed was no business of anyone else, and certainly no cause to stab them; the Commandment regarding that sort of thing only said not to cheat on who you were with, and she was fairly certain there was also one about murdering and how you weren't supposed to do it.

And so the weeks turned into months, and in alleys and alcoves and under the cover of darkness, their plan began to form. They started to talk of bringing others into their midst, and to begin planning for all the ways someone could bring them down. Daisy grew taller and leaner and more cautious, and Ayo gained more scars, which she tended to the best she could.

"First person we gotta get," she said one day about two years after their first meeting, as she stitched up the short gash a cutpurse had left in his shoulder upon being caught out, "is a medic. The shanties are a mean enough place on their own, and if we ever going to be fighting, we're gonna need one."

Ayo didn't answer; his free hand was clenched against his leg and his teeth were gritted against the dirty gauze she'd given him to bite on. They had no means of dulling the pain: there were few proper doctors down here, and while there were plenty of men who could get you all the laudanum you could pay for, Daisy'd heard tell that people were spiking it with rat poison or worse. The sight of one man retching his own stomach out onto the cobblestones had taught her that lesson right quick.

Ayo nodded when she was done, though, rolling his tongue around his mouth to get rid of the taste of the gauze. "Yeah, I think you right. I might know a guy who can help, worked as a cleaner in a hospital and learned a few things. I'll ask around, see who we can find."

Daisy gingerly rolled his shirt back down over the wound and gave him a wry, sad smile. "I wish I was better at this."

"You saved my life, so you ain't terrible at it," he said, patting her shoulder stiffly and then wincing at the motion.

"Well, thanks." Daisy stood. "Let that rest a bit, and then we can set about findin' ourselves a real doctor."

Elijah joined their ranks nine days later. He'd worked at a hospital in Savannah, as Ayo had said; and unlike the two of them, he was actually guilty of the crime for which he'd been convicted, secreting medicines out of the hospital to sell to smugglers in the city. Daisy didn't like that all that much, remembering the man coughing up thick chunks of flesh from a poisoned oblivion, but Lije assured her that, smuggler or no, he'd only done it to take some coin out of white hands, and saw no profit in poisoning another.

"They have an oath, doctors," he said, in his soft slow voice. "That they will not harm others, no matter what."

"Yeah, but you ain't a doctor."

"If you say I'm a doctor, I'm a doctor," said Lije. Daisy considered this. She'd keep her eyes on him, she decided, and the first sign of trouble, he'd be off the team and on a fast trip down to Earth. Finally, she nodded.

"Good enough." She paused. "That 'not harming others' thing don't apply to old Comstock, does it?"

Elijah smiled, so narrow and cold and hateful that it sent a delighted, terrified thrill up Daisy's spine. "No, ma'am, it does not."

She matched his smile, cold and narrow, like a knife. "Good."

Lije was soon joined by Ada, a sharpshooter whose ma had been a stationmaster during the Civil War, and who knew her way around a Winchester rifle like nobody's business; then by Bettie, an Irish nurse who'd come to Columbia seeking faith and fortune, only to find naught but poverty and hatred; then Garrett, another Irishman and one of Comstock's indentured convicts, who had the lightest, stickiest fingers of anybody; huge one-eyed stammering Fang, whose real name was Obadiah, a tried, convicted, escaped, and proudly-admitted murderer; and Jewel, whose real name was a blank mystery, and who was as good with her stolen twin tanner's knives as Ada was with her rifle.

Daisy didn't even realize how close and quick her family had grown until she woke up one morning in the warren of shacks that had sprung from her old dry alcove, looked around, and saw nothing but the faces of friends around her. She almost cried with joy right then and there. She wasn't the eldest, or the toughest, but somehow she and Ayo had brought these people together, all on their lonesome. They called her their leader and treated her so; even Ayo, who had every right to outrank her in their little revolution, had quietly and firmly taken up position as her loyal lieutenant.

And every day, their support grew. What scared little lambs didn't want to fight stayed out of their way for the most part, and those were few and far between; nobody who lived in Shantytown was happy about it. Nobody who worked for that sonuvabitch Jeremiah Fink was happy about that, either. Mothers with starving children, fathers with feverish wives: even those who had nothing to offer but support gave them that. And Daisy spoke of freedom, and equality, and of how the people up above only had to work eight hours a day, six on Fridays, and sometimes they didn't have to at all; and she listened, and she read.

And, on the frozen night of the turning of the century, they had their first victory.

* * *

DECEMBER 31, 1899

The factories and docks closed early on New Year's Eve, ostensibly to illustrate Fink's 'generosity with leisure' or some such nonsense, but in truth because the coppers and the overseers and the rich men didn't want to waste time looking after colored folk when they could be out celebrating. By six o' clock all work in the shanties had ceased, and only a few cursory officers still made their customary rounds of Finkton, keeping an eye out for ne'er-do-wells. They were easy enough to avoid; a firecracker let off in an alley several streets away set the dogs barking and the men all running to see what was the matter. Nobody noticed the four lithe, dark forms that skirted hastily through the briefly-abandoned checkpoint and into the industrial district.

On account of the New Year's festivities, the docks to which the little group now directed its attention were only lightly guarded: not by white men, but by Fink workers desperate to make any extra coin they could. Daisy'd sent some of her people –  _her people_! She could still barely fathom it – to find out what they could about the guards, but none of them seemed like they could be bribed. Daisy didn't have anything worthwhile to offer yet anyways, other than a hollow promise of a better life; backing those promises up with action was what this raid was about. But bribes or no, the point still stood. They had to get around those guards.

"What d'you think?" Ayo whispered from where they crouched with Garrett and Jewel in an empty cargo crate left outside the shipyard fence. Daisy scouted along the border, biting a thumbnail in consternation. There was no way either over the fence or around it, leastways not without being seen; she supposed they might hand-over-hand their way over the edge of the island and under, but that seemed frightfully dangerous, and her rebellion was too young and too small to be able to afford losing even a single member.

The question, then, came down to how high a price she was willing to pay for her freedom.

_Any price_ , she thought _._  These were the sorts of decisions a revolutionary leader would have to make on the road to liberty, and if she backed down on the arrival of the very first one, she'd hardly deserve her title. Daisy looked at the nearest guard, leaning against the wrought-iron gate and picking his teeth idly with a splinter of wood, and then at Jewel.

"They're traitors," she said finally, steeling herself, "all of 'em what seek to hinder us. They don't deserve our mercy." She nodded at the other woman. Without a word, Jewel turned and vanished through the back of the crate. A moment later she appeared along the fence, moving swiftly in a crouch. A glint of light flashed at the edge of her wrist as she flicked one of her knives free from her cuff. Then, in one swift movement, she rose up, wrapped one arm around the guard's face to muffle his shouts of alarm, slashed the blade across his throat, and laid the body down gently on the tarry planks. In less than five seconds, it was over, and all without a sound. Daisy stared mutely at the blood splashed across the wood. She'd forgotten how bright it was.

_No_. She couldn't afford to have qualms, now or ever. If she was going to go against the oppressive and the pitiless, she had to be committed entirely to the cause. Small sacrifices like these would secure the freedom of the many, and that was worth any cost.

Ayo and Garrett were watching her as if to judge her reaction. She gritted her teeth and stood, glancing to each side before hurrying across the open space to where Jewel stood waiting for them.

"Well done," she told her, and Jewel nodded, curt and satisfied. Daisy looked to the pickpocket. "Can you get us inside?"

"Of course," Garrett said, in a tone that suggested that the very implication that he couldn't was deeply insulting. Daisy and Ayo kept watch for approaching patrols while he turned his attention to the heavy padlock that bound the shipyard gate. Moments later, they were through, and past the biggest obstacle that could be planned for; beyond the high iron fence, the docks were completely unguarded.

Their target was tethered at the furthest jetty in the row, among a warren of moorings, stacked crates, and piled swaths of canvas: a little red-hulled gunship, like the sort that swarmed around the big cargo zeppelins that carried supplies to and fro across Columbia. It was guarded by the blank-faced semblance of a metal man, stuffed full with bullets and vigilant as any watchdog. But it was stupider than a dog by far, and didn't notice Jewel slithering up behind it with her knives until it was all sorts of too late. A kick, a twist, and the back panel was off the turret's base; Jewel thrust both of her blades into the opening, brought them sharply down and apart, and then leapt back as a short  _bang_ and a gout of sparking smoke issued forth. The metal golem jerked and died, lanterns in its horrible hollow eyes going dark. Jewel whistled short and sharp, and Daisy and her boys hurried across the dock to join her on the gunship's deck.

"You reckon you can get this thing started?"

Jewel scratched her stubbly close-shaved head and scowled ruminatively. "An airship'd be a mite different from a coin machine, I figure," she said, meaning the mechanical vending devices that she painted up at the workshop, "but I stole a riverboat in St. Louis before. I'll see what I can do." She turned and disappeared into the cabin. Shortly there was a growling rumble from the airship's engines, and then the propellers in its stern roared to life in a cough of metallic steam. The ship strained upwards against its moorings; in the distance, shouts of alarm sounded along the dockyard perimeter. They'd been found out, and the clock had started ticking. Daisy and Garrett hastily slashed through the ropes holding the airship down, and they peeled away from the dock just as another gate further down the way burst open, letting a stream of greenbacked police pour into the harbor.

They were too late; the airship dropped beneath the lip of the island and rattled away into the cold winter air. Ada and Fang came aboard at a loading bay nestled amidst a forest of pillars behind a rambling clock shop, and they were off again, out into the frigid night in search of prey.

At a dozen souls, Daisy's little rebellion was too small yet to do any real damage. They'd drawn straws to see which four would accompany her and Ayo on their first foray into the world of anarchy. Ayo had thought that Daisy ought to stay behind to keep them going in case the worst should happen, but she'd insisted. This was  _her_  revolution, her passion and her darling, and there was no power in Heaven or Hell that could stop her from seeing her first true act of dissent in person – even if it was only on the smallest scale, for their little transport, designed only for short security rounds, would never make it all the way to the center of Columbia. On a night like New Year's, though, dozens of islands would detach from their moorings and sail hither and yon to provide the swells partying aboard with the most spectacular views of the World Below. One of the largest floaters would be within range of the gunship for much of the evening, and it was of this that Daisy and her crew had made a target.

As the evening began to darken, they drew near their destination at last. The buildings changed from soot-stained brick and tarred wood planks to smooth silvery cobblestones and seamless marble blocks; nettles and weeds were replaced by roses, snowdrops, and hydrangeas, and foul-scented whale lamps by bright white-shining electric lanterns. The streets were clogged with fallen leaves and couples in silks and linens, rather than by trash and mangy rats. And everywhere, the faces of the people they saw were the same: fat, smug, soft, and  _white_. Daisy clenched her fists and ground her teeth and swore she'd carve the names of everyone who'd ever suffered by their hands into their pale flabby bellies, one at a time.

Ayo put a hand on her shoulder, perhaps sensing her fury. She glanced up at him sharply. His face was calm and understanding, but his eyes burned bright with a rage as hot and bitter as her own. Her men grew restless too as the gunship puttered over streets that grew ever more crowded the nearer they drew to the the party island's center. Colorful lanterns had been strung between the buildings, and music drifted from windows that stood open despite the frigid January air. Warm brown-smelling woodsmoke curled from a multitude of chimneys. Nobody took any notice as Daisy's stolen airship burred overhead; the flying red boats were a symbol of protection to them, and it would never enter their shriveled little minds that one might be stolen and put to more productive use.

In a large courtyard at the very center of the island, a pavilion had been raised. There were perhaps two hundred people gathered here; most rambled about outside the gabled silk tent, bearing glasses of champagne and their finest attire. Beneath the pavilion, a stage had been erected for a small orchestra, and below that was a cleared floor where a half-dozen further couples whirled about in rapturous dance. Amidst this display of decadent carelessness, Daisy spotted others: dark-skinned men in crisp white suits, made to work even on the holiday, bearing silver platters of tea or champagne or hors d'oeuvres. Their faces were drawn and solemn, their eyes and mouths creased with weariness and sorrow. They flinched at the passing of the gunship, not knowing and unable to know that this one brought them vindication rather than pain. Daisy snarled under her breath and hacked impatiently with her knife at the doorframe of the cabin. They'd pay in blood for her brothers and sisters, all of them, and there was a lot of suffering owed.

A huge oak tree wrapped round with twinkling lights grew from the center of the cobbled clearing, its boughs weighted with hanging lanterns. At its base were stacked maybe a dozen assorted crates and round red kegs, each stamped with a label that she couldn't read from a distance, but which she knew all the same to be the word "FIREWORKS". This bastion of containers was hemmed in by an irregular circle of sawhorses and guarded by two of the city's more elite guardsmen, but the Columbian partygoers knew to leave it alone, and so both the coppers were sitting on one of the larger barrels with their shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows, playing a hand of cards. How complacent they were, to think that nothing would happen on a night like tonight!

Daisy smirked. "Miss Ada, if you'd be so kind," she said.

"Why, it would be my absolute pleasure, Miss Daisy." The sharpshooter raised her old Winchester 1873 to her shoulder and smiled. She had the kindest face of anyone Daisy knew, and that smile would've been better turned towards some handsome gentleman with a pretty nosegay. Nobody would have thought there could be such ice in such a sweet thing, which was why she'd been able to smuggle her gun into Finkton without all that much trouble, and what made Daisy so desperately grateful to have her.

Two shots cracked neatly through the night; two officers fell dead against the root-heaved cobblestones, watering the oak tree with their lifeblood. There was a kind of poetry to that, Daisy thought. ' _The tree of Liberty must be watered with the blood of patriots and tyrants._ ' The man who'd wrote that had made slaves of folk like her; but in her opinion, that made using his words against his kinsmen, particularly those what worshiped him like some kind of deity, all the more pointful.

The sound of gunfire drew attention from the outskirts of the milling throng. Daisy heard, with a sort of tinny sharp clarity, a woman cry out delightedly, "Ooh, are the fireworks starting already?"

"I thought they weren't due until a quarter to midnight," a man's voice said from somewhere else in the crowd. Heads turned and necks craned to see what was going on, and then a woman must have caught sight of the fallen guards, because there was a high, quavering, terrified scream.

"Now," said Daisy, heart hammering, and brought her hand above her head and down. Huge mean Fang thrust a plug of cotton through the spout of an oil drum, set it alight, and hefted it overboard into the collection of fireworks. There was a brief stretch of almost comical silence as the gathered audience slowly turned their gazes from the bouncing barrel to the red gunship hovering above; then came a volley of rapid pops, an escalating round of bangs, and finally a terrible rending  _crack!_  as the oil drum and all the surrounding powder-kegs caught light. Sparks of every color blossomed in staccato bursts, followed a breath later by a series of resounding percussions, and then by several pluming tongues of oily red flame. Heat rolled across the courtyard, flushing Daisy's face; the closest bystanders were thrown back or engulfed entirely by the inferno. Only briefly did the horrified silence last; then the screams started up, and they sounded to Daisy more sweet and melodious than any orchestra ever could. People scattered as the flames spread from the branches of the oak to the colorful pavilion, but the alleys leading to the courtyard were narrow, and quite soon a large number of people were trapped.

Fang's grin was a crescent moon in the firelit dark. "Th-that was f-fun."

She patted his arm and returned his grin. "Want to do it again?"

"C-can I?" He clapped his hands together in delight. In many ways, the big man spoke and acted like a child, but though he was unlettered and clumsy with speech, he was one of the smartest pyromancers Daisy'd ever seen. She stepped across to the munitions bench and handed him another torch.

"Burn us an island, Fang."

"Heh. Y-es, ma'am-m." He lit the torch and turned to go, but she caught his sleeve before he could make it more than a step.

"No," she said fiercely. "I ain't nobody's 'ma'am,' now or ever, understand?" She turned her head and raised her voice to the rest of her crew. "That goes for you lot as well. If we stand with the people, none of us ought to be standin' over any other either, y'hear?"

There was a collective consideration's worth of pause. Then Ayo and Ada and Garrett and Jewel all nodded in what she thought might be approval, and Fang's broad smile got all the broader.

"All-l right then, D-Daisy."

"That's my man," she said. "Go raise me up some good old-fashioned Hell."

Cackling like a hyena, Fang disappeared over the gunship's hull. A moment later, she caught sight of him pounding across a roof a fathom below, flames sending light dancing across his face as he made his way towards the panicked square. Daisy turned to the rest. "You ladies go ahead'n join him. Garrett too. Ayo and I got a speech to make."

General words of assent, and her crew headed off after Fang, taking up torches and arms as they went. She sent Ayo to the cabin to pilot them off from the flames a ways, and then crossed to the bow, detaching the gunship's microphone from its cradle. It was a bit of work to figure out how to power the thing, but she got it working in short enough order, and her voice rang tinnily out across the firelit chaos below.

"Seems to me, all you highborn folk weren't expecting much of a show tonight," she shouted. "But you sure got one, didn't you?" About half the crowd paused in their frantic jostling away from the blaze to stare slack-jawed up at her. Daisy laughed contemptuously down at them all. "Seems to me you forgot about us down in the docklands and the shanties, you were so concerned about havin' a party! But you sure remember us now, don't you?"

Now all of those who weren't in direct danger of being ignited were watching her, enraptured. Her heart pounded and her palms were slick, but she thought about Ayo, and her Ma, and Finkton, and she kept her voice steady. "See, this little presentation tonight is to tell you all, here and now, that there's a fire burning down in the factories what comes from more than just coal! Your fine clothes and your warm houses and your luxuries, where do you think they come from? Your servants and your scullery maids, what you think they got inside their heads? Air? We're not stupid, and we ain't weak!" She was gesturing wildly now as Ayo piloted the gunship in a wide spiral around the party square. Many of the folks had left off watching the show and resumed trampling each other in a truly edifying display of fellowship and Christian charity, but a fair majority still stood staring upwards with gaping expressions of horror. A smaller portion watched a bit more calmly: here and there dark faces, studying her from beneath bellhops' caps and waiters' aprons, were nodding or smiling, or merely thoughtful. It was to them that Daisy spoke now, for them that the tree in the courtyard burned.

"You lot up here, slaving to the white man! You listen, now! If you get too tired to stand up straight, we speak for you. If you get so hungry, even the rats make your mouth water, we speak for you. If you feel so alone, you goin' turn to the Devil just for a little company, then  _I speak for you!_ " She was shouting with all her lungs now, and the microphone squealed and fizzed with every raising of her voice, but she didn't care. All that mattered was that sea of eyes locked on her, and those few dark faces etched with such desperate hope that it nearly broke her heart. "I speak with all the voice of all the people. Whenever you find yourself in need, you find yourself Daisy Fitzroy, for she isn't broken, and never will be!"

A wave of nausea rose in her as she released the metal microphone. It clattered to the deck and she staggered back, gasping for air, nearly blind with nerves. Below her, the airship shook and thrummed with a great rhythmic retort as it climbed away, towards the darker streets where the fire had not yet reached. By the time it drew down to a few feet above ground level, Daisy had contained herself enough to look, wide-eyed and trembling, for Ayo's approval.

For a moment, he said nothing, only stood in the cabin doorway and stared right back at her, face a blank mask. Then he surged forwards and wrapped his arms under hers, squeezing her tight, lifting her high and spinning her around.

"I believe in angels, lookin' at you, girl," he said gruffly, and then her tears started, hot and hysterical and wildly, wildly joyous.

"We're gonna make a difference, Ayo. We're gonna change the world."

"I know it," he said, and she laughed, because it was the only thing she could do. They hadn't won the war, for it had scarce even started, but their first battle had nearly come away a perfect victory. All they needed was to rendezvous with the others and make it back to Finkton without getting caught; that was hardly any meager task, but put next to the theft and arson they'd just committed, it looked like a nap on a feather bed in comparison.

"Come on," she said, scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of both hands. "Let's get the others."

Fang and Garrett were the easiest to find; the huge convict and the scrawny Irishman were laughing uproariously as they stove in windows with what looked suspiciously like a chunk of unmoored doorframe. They fell in beside Daisy and Ayo, still in rowdy good spirits, when the former shouted for them to get a move on.

"G-great speech," Fang said, clapping Daisy on the back hard enough to knock her clean to one knee. "Alm-most cried-d a bit. Heh."

"I liked the bit about 'all the voices of all the people'," Garrett said a touch more ruminatively, as she staggered upright again. "Might not make a bad name for us, either," he added, after a pause. "' _Solent dicere, Vox populi, vox Dei_ '. 'One might say that the voice of the people is the voice of God'."

Daisy, Ayo, and Fang all stared at him in utter wonderment.

Ayo was the first to find his voice. "The Hell did you learn to talk all fancy like that?"

Garrett sniffed. "You could fill a book with the things you didn't know about me," he said haughtily, clearly affronted. "I was a man of the cloth for a while, and we learned Latin as a matter of course."

Ayo raised his eyebrows. " _You_  were a preacher?"

"You know how much gold they have sitting around in highbrow churches, not even tacked down or anything?" Garrett gave him a wolfish grin, and understanding dawned.

"I like it," Daisy said abruptly, interrupting their conspiratorial laughter. "'Vox Populi,' that's the bit about the people's voices, yeah? It does have a sound to it, don't it?"

"I suppose," Ayo said, but he still sounded doubtful. Daisy shrugged.

"Come on, now's hardly the time or the place anyhow," she said. "We still have to find the girls."

Jewel and Ada joined them only a few minutes later, weighed down by half the contents of a jewelry store. Daisy looked them up and down sternly and near enough sent them straight back, but their pleading expressions won out, and anyhow, anything they could sell would give money to the cause.

Thus reunited, Daisy's gang made their way back towards the gunship through the echoing streets, whooping and laughing and shouting to one another with the sheer giddy joy of having had something go utterly right for once. They paused at the intersection of two wide boulevards and Daisy turned to give Ayo another breathless, exhilarated grin, which petered out as she caught sight of the poster behind him.

It was in the same style as many of the other political advertisements she'd seen around Columbia and Finkton, but this one was different: propaganda for the white men, she figured. It showed a demonic hooded figure hefting a scythe over the head of a wide-eyed, cowering lamb; the hand visible from the hem of its black robe was carved with the letters ' _A.D._ ' It seemed to shift and waver in the stuttering orange glare of the rapidly-expanding fire, as if it possessed some obscene life of its own.

" _The False Shepherd Seeks Only to Lead our Lamb Astray!_ "

Daisy narrowed her eyes and pushed gently past the bemused Ayo to study it further, only to stagger in her tracks, struck dumb by a memory that could not be, was not, and yet  _was_ , undoubtedly, inescapably, hers.

A green-eyed man, pale-faced, scruffy, grinning dryly as he raised a hand branded 'A.D.' to her face; the crack of gunfire in the night; Columbia burning, and the agonizing shriek of metal as a huge bronze angel, tarnished with age, sheared in half and collapsed in a gout of smoke—

"Daisy?  _Daisy!_ " Someone was vigorously shaking her shoulder. She jerked and flailed out, one palm making firm contact with something irregular and soft. "Ow! Shit, girl, you possessed or something?"

"Ay– Ayo?"

"Who else would it be?" Ayo rubbed his face, scowling; the soft irregular thing she'd hit had been his nose. "You're bleeding. What the Hell happened?"

She raised a hand to find a hot sticky wetness on her upper lip. She drew in a shuddering, panicked breath, and then another. "I dunno."

He took a step back. Daisy swallowed thickly, a sudden terror overwhelming her. He couldn't leave her, not now, not now—!

He shook his head, scratched at his ear, stepped forward again. The panic subsided slightly.

"It happens again, I'm putting you on Lije's table," he muttered, redoubling his pace along the boulevard. Daisy grimaced and stuck her tongue out at him. Lije was as fine a doctor as could be asked for in the shanties, but his table wasn't anywhere she'd like to be laying down, leastways not without a bath afterwards.

At least she hadn't scared Ayo off. What had even happened, anyhow? She'd remembered that man so vividly, yet she knew she'd never seen him before...

Her thoughts dwelled on the strange false memory all the way back to the gunship, but then the thrill of escape and the anxiety of managing to return undetected took hold as Finkton finally loomed up before them once more. Jewel cut the engines a dozen fathoms from dock, and they glided in silent, bumping against the jetty in the dark.

The sabotaged automaton had been entirely removed, no doubt by the coppers searching for them, and distant bobbing lights indicated that patrols had been doubled at the least. Daisy swore under her breath.

"The roofs," Garret whispered, touching her shoulder, and she nodded. It wasn't too difficult to hop from the fence to the top of the cargo crate where they'd sheltered just a few scant hours ago; from there, they scrambled up to the roof of a warehouse, one after the other, and made their way along that to the alley. The gap was easily narrow enough to jump, as was the next; and it was thus over the sleeping heads of squalid Finkton that the victorious half of the newly-named Vox Populi made their silent way back home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed! You may have noticed that I took liberties with several of the dates, in this and in other chapters. This is deliberate, as the game's canon timeline feels a bit wonky to me, so I've tweaked it a bit in order to smooth the characters' ages out and make things progress in a more believable manner.
> 
> Stay tuned next for **_Forgive Me, Lord, for I Have Sinned_** , in which A Talk is had, and we find out whether I'm really any good at foreshadowing after all.


	10. Forgive Me, Lord, for I Have Sinned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // OI WHAT YEAH WHAT I'M STill alive it's a miracle! I'm really, really sorry for the long, long — long — periods between each chapter, so as recompense have ELEVEN FUCKING THOUSAND WORDS. HOLY CRAP. WHY CAN I NOT WRITE SHORT CHAPTERS THIS IS STUPID.   
>  It occurs to me that this chapter (and probably the last one, whoooops) should probably have a suicide content warning on it. It's not graphic, but it's dwelled upon, seeing as it's a plot point.   
>  As usual, a gigantic thank you to everyone who's stuck with the story so far! Your readership and reviews make me feel warm and fuzzy and y'all rock ok :'D   
>  Aaaaaannyways, on with the chapter, and it's a big one! The AU kicks in For Realz here guys. Are you excited? because I am excited. SO EXCITED.

" _It is easier to forgive an enemy  
_ _than to forgive a friend._ "  
—William Blake

**CHAPTER TEN:** _Forgive Me, Lord, for I Have Sinned._

JULY 11, 1912

Light.

Then darkness, and then light again. Through a hazy, hungover sort of fugue, Booker could vaguely sense large chunks of time slipping past, but it all seemed irrelevant and far away. He couldn't focus on anything. Blurry images passed before his eyes with no real sense of coherence or order: Elizabeth stepping over him with pure contempt in those pale blue eyes; the view outside the _First Lady_ 's portholes tilting, shifting; a flutter of cloth as the girl left the airship, not looking back; then a new figure, also female, but taller and slimmer and darker, slipping warily aboard.

Booker tried to speak to her, but only managed a few slurred syllables. The woman's head whipped around in alarm, and she stared down at him with cold black eyes. Her outline fuzzed gray briefly, like the image of a kinetoscope, and solidified again. That struck him as significant somehow, but he couldn't remember why.

Then exhaustion took hold of him again, and for another immeasurable stretch of time, he slept.

When he woke for the second time, it was to a distant chant and a rhythmic striking sound, and to cold air on his face. It took several seconds for his eyes to unstick; then he came awake all at once when he realized that there was nothing below him but sixty feet of empty air, and past that the jagged lip of a quarry that had been transported in its entirety to the decks of a dozen flying barges.

Booker jerked wildly, made a desperate and flailing attempt to stumble backwards, and was pulled to safety by a pair of unfamiliar hands. He whirled around, readying for a fight, and found himself the prisoner of a dark-skinned man in some sort of makeshift leather armor, his face slashed with lines of thick red paint. Past this stranger was the interior of the _First Lady_ , now crowded with figures lying prone on cots or pads of linen in various states of injury. Several blurry figures in white moved among them, occasionally bending down to tend to the more badly-wounded ones.

Distantly, as if his ears were plugged with cotton, Booker heard his captor say, "Daisy, I think fresh air did the trick. Looks like he's waking up." He was released to stand queasily upright, though the other man maintained a close presence at his side.

One of the patrolling shapes stood and moved closer, coalescing into a woman wearing patched canvas trousers and a red scarf thrown carelessly across her shoulders. She was as tall as Booker, thin and sinewy, with high sharp cheekbones and a canny, amused expression about her eyes and the corners of her mouth. She was graceful, too, as she came to prop an elbow on her compatriot's shoulder. Her eyes flicked up and down appraisingly, brow furrowing for a moment in what looked like confusion; then her face became a mask once more.

"So you're this False Shepherd we been hearing so much about," she said. A cold, sharp smile flitted across her face, accompanied by a hint of something that might have been approval. "Caused a mess of trouble at the raffle."

She jerked her head over her shoulder, and Booker, following the gesture, was surprised to see the woman he'd saved from the lottery, just barely more than a week ago. One of her arms was bandaged, and she had an antiquated rifle that might have been a Winchester slung over one shoulder. When she caught him looking, she nodded in recognition, calm as you please, as if seeing men hung out the airlock of her leader's stolen airship was an everyday occurrence.

Booker returned his attention to the first woman, an unwelcome feeling of apprehension rising in his chest. "You Fitzroy?"

She grinned at him. "Nothing but."

There was a pause. She appeared to be waiting for him to speak.

"Look," he said wearily, "I got no quarrel with you, or your Vox Populi. But this is my airship you're hanging me out of, and I've a perilous need of it."

Daisy Fitzroy snorted. "Really?" she said, glancing pointedly from the portraits on the walls and lavish furnishings to where the Prophet's golden statue stood in its recess, its crystal eyes shattered and one side of its head staved in. "'Cause it sure look like old Comstock's airship to me."

"Listen, I ain't looking for a fight."

"There's already a fight, DeWitt. Only question is, which side you on?" Fitzroy turned and began to pace back and forth across the cabin, stepping deftly between her injured men with her hands clasped behind her back. "Comstock is the god of the white man, the rich man, the pitiless man. But if you believe in common folk, then join the Vox." She turned back to him, blazing with a bright, angry fervor. "If you believe in the righteous folk, then join the Vox!"

She was quite serious, Booker realized with some consternation; she was actually inviting him to join. He held up his hands and she tracked the movement, tense and coiled like an overwound spring.

"I just want my airship."

Fitzroy exchanged glances with Booker's captor and nodded curtly. "And the Vox shall give her to you," she said, after a short hesitation. "But first, you must help the Vox. Down in Finkton, there's a gunsmith who can supply weapons to our cause." From a pocket of her trousers she produced a small white card, which Booker, not knowing what else to do, cautiously took. "Get our guns from him, and you shall have your ship back."

She stepped forwards, shadowed as always by her taciturn compatriot. Booker moved backwards instinctively, only to remember too late that there was nothing behind him but air. He tilted dangerously and made a desperate grab for the doorframe, but Fitzroy put a firm hand on his shoulder and shoved. He was propelled backwards at speed, out into empty space; for a moment, there was nothingness all around him and he fell, grasping futilely at the empty air; then he was slammed bodily against something that gave a bit as he landed. He rolled ungracefully to one side, fell again, hit something much harder, and laid there, stunned.

Slowly, his vision returned. He was sprawled on dirty, tar-stained wood next to a large cargo crate piled high with swaths of canvas: this was what had cushioned his initial fall. Above him, the _First Lady_ roared off into the sky, taking with it his only means of reaching Paris.

 _Wait_ , he thought bleakly. How was he supposed to convince this gunsmith, whoever he was, to give up enough of his stock to arm however many Vox Populi there even were? And when it came to it, how was he going to get said weapons out of, what was it called, Finkton? He very much doubted that he was just going to be able to waltz in and out through the front door. And on top of that, he had to find Elizabeth.

 _Elizabeth..._! She was probably still furious with him, and rightfully so. How the Hell was he going to convince her to come with him again?

A bitter part of him muttered that he should just leave her, let her fend for herself for once and see how she liked it, but he couldn't. At the very least he had to apologize; but, if he was entirely honest with himself1, Paris was starting to look very appealing.

Groaning, Booker rolled onto his front and got painfully to his feet. He was starting to grow very tired of falling off of things, and it was becoming more and more of a pattern. His bad shoulder was a reddish, dully-throbbing mass, and his healed wrist was aching again as well. He flexed it absently as he took stock of his surroundings. He'd been dropped onto the furthest jetty of a long wharf lined with airships of varying sizes, most of them carrying cargo crates. The air stunk of smoke and filth, and the distant jumble of boxlike shapes that demarcated the rest of Columbia was obscured by a brownish haze. Workers in shabby overalls milled about, heads down, their pace weary; amongst them roved a handful of policemen in green felt coats, swinging nightsticks or openly carrying shotguns and rifles. It took Booker a moment to notice that all of the policemen were white, whereas all but a scant few of the workers were not. He wasn't surprised in the slightest, but it still sat wrong in the back of his mind.

All in all, it was a thoroughly dismal scene. Booker moved through it unnoticed: one weary, battered man amongst a hundred equally weary and battered men. He had no idea where he was, or how long ago Elizabeth had left him to the mercies of the Vox Populi; all he knew was that he had to keep going. He was hemmed in on all sides by cliffs of solid brick unbroken by windows or ornamentation, each one rising hundreds of feet into the air. One such wall had a makeshift wooden sign mounted to it, positioned so that it was visible from everywhere along the dock: ' _Beggar's Wharf_ '. It was, Booker thought humorlessly, an accurate summary.

A bullhorn squeal made him jump and look over his shoulder, bracing for yet another fight, but he needn't have worried. It appeared to be a prerecorded message, similar to a voxophone but broadcast over some sort of gramophone system; the speaker's voice sounded vaguely familiar, though he couldn't put a face to it.

" _Now_ ," it said, with far too much cheer for the scene it was addressing, " _some folks just aren't satisfied with their place here at Fink Industries. But I tell you, there's a purpose for all living things! Would the pharaohs of Egypt have been able to stand at the top of their pyramids if the Israelites had not made their bricks?_ "

More of the same warped propaganda that seemed so popular around Columbia, then. God, he hated this city. He couldn't— _wouldn't_ —leave it without Elizabeth, though, and he was running out of time. He lowered his head and made haste for the stem of the wharf before he attracted any undue attention. As the docklands came to an end, the buildings drew closer together and the workers more sparse. A sign sternly informed Booker that the Fink Industries offices were only open on invitation, and that he was not to loiter under any circumstances. He hadn't really planned on doing so, but he'd have to be even more careful; the last thing he needed was some overzealous policeman coming by to see what he was doing down here.

He rounded a corner, edged sideways through the narrow gap between two crates, and found himself at a set of bay doors that stood slightly ajar at the end of a lonely and forlorn-looking pier. There were raised voices coming from beyond it, and he paused to listen warily, one hand dipping into his rucksack for the shotgun.

"Thought so," said a scratchy male voice, in a tone of grim satisfaction. There was a brief scuffling sound. Booker craned to see through the crack in the door, but only caught a few unsatisfactory glimpses of the rail of an airship, and of a man's back bending over and then straightening up again.

"Get out of here, snipe," someone else said, and a taller, broader man in a grubby uniform came into view, struggling with something that remained stubbornly hidden behind the crates. "You wanna know what we do to pretty little stowaways? Or maybe you don't!"

The accompanying laugh was filthy and cruel. The uniformed man gave a great shove, and a smaller figure was propelled from the deck of the airship to land clumsily against a pile of rope coiled on the edge of the private dock.

Elizabeth. Booker wrangled hastily with the rolling doors, managing to wedge one open just as the girl caught sight of him. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted away down the dock, knocking over a haphazard pile of buckets in her haste to escape.

"God _damn_ it! Elizabeth, wait!"

But she was already almost out of sight. Booker took off, dodging her roadblock and careening wildly after her between crates, up and down stairs, and across gangplanks that shuddered worryingly with every step. Elizabeth led him on a merry chase indeed, leaping easily from dock to dock and pausing only once to shout at him over her shoulder.

"Stay back! I have no need for—for one such as you!"

The utter anguish in her voice stopped him in his tracks. And really, whose fault had this been again? He should have foreseen this, should never have lied to her; should have, should have, should have...

Booker's distraction gave Elizabeth the time to rip open a Tear directly in his path, and then a train was roaring through Beggar's Wharf at three dozen knots, cutting him off as she made her escape. He paced impatiently back and forth, vacillating between swearing ineffectually at the passing cars and shouting over their clangor for Elizabeth to just wait.

Either distance or exhaustion caused her to lose her hold on the Tear after maybe twenty seconds, but that had been plenty of time; Booker barely managed to catch a flash of blue before she disappeared around another corner. He pelted after her into some kind of office, lined with dented lockers, and felt a swell of relief: a dead end. But the girl flung her arms open without even breaking stride, and the back wall rippled and fuzzed and folded in on itself, regressing into a state of half-constructed incompletion. Beyond it was what looked like a prison yard, hemmed by high brick walls and swarming with guards.

"Don't go in there!" Booker shouted desperately, but there was little hope; Elizabeth wouldn't have stopped for him even if she could have. As it was, her momentum took her through the Tear and straight into the arms of a waiting officer.

"No," she said, and then again, in a panicked cry, " _No!_ "

The soldier had already begun dragging her away, and the Tear cracked shut just as Booker slammed into the wall where it had been mere seconds before. He pounded furiously at the bricks, shouting for Elizabeth, but to no avail. He could still hear her cursing and snarling beyond, so at least she was close and the Tear hadn't led to another part of the district entirely. That offered a grain of relief, but he still had to find a way around, and fast.

There was a back door out of the office that led up to a second story. Booker sprinted up the stairs, skidded around a corner, and emerged onto a docking platform overlooking the police yard. He crouched down behind a stack of wooden pallets before anyone could catch sight of him, then peered out and assessed the situation. The courtyard was shabby, strewn with trash and bits of machinery, and the skyline that swept up from the docking bay and out of sight was rusty and discolored. A propane tank sat in one corner, half-covered by a canvas tarpaulin, and a pair of men were clamped into a row of stocks in the center of the open space, looking rather bored with the proceedings. Elizabeth had been handcuffed to the handle of a rolling bay door on the opposite side of the yard, and her captor was informing what appeared to be his supervising officer that the Prophet's men were on their way.

"Hear that, beautiful?" the officer said. "The Handyman's coming to take you home to your daddy, safe and sound. That wicked False Shepherd won't be able to hurt you anymore."

Elizabeth cursed him and struggled, but she was shackled tight. He stretched out a hand to offer comfort or perhaps to restrain her, but never got the chance to do either; she threw herself against the shackles and bit down on the proffered appendage, hard. The officer howled and jerked away, then reared back and slapped her furiously across the face, snapping her head around. She cried out in pain and tried to scuttle as far out of his reach as the manacles would allow, but he grabbed her chin and forced her to stare into his face.

"You listen to me, you little bitch," he snarled, all goodwill forgotten. "You're gonna stay quiet if you know what's good for you, understand? And if you don't, well..."

The sentence hung in the air unfinished. Elizabeth, undaunted, took the opportunity to spit in his face and kick him in the shin. Booker paused in the act of priming his Springfield, a swell of pride rising in his chest. _That's my girl_.

The officer staggered back, cursing and wiping his eyes, and grabbed for his nightstick; it was halfway to Elizabeth's face when his head exploded into a mess of skull and hair and chunks of flesh.

Chaos erupted immediately in the yard. Men poured out from behind the bay door, and somewhere an alarm bell began to ring. Unfazed by the cacophony, Booker carefully slotted a new cartridge into the rifle's breech, took stock, aimed, and fired again: another man went down. Elizabeth's head jerked around, an expression achingly like hope written across her face as she searched for him; then it was gone again, replaced with careful indifference. Still, it was something. Maybe there was even some chance left that he would be able to bring her round to his side again.

The tramp of feet on the stairs behind him brought him back to his current predicament. He could worry about Elizabeth later; for now, he had to worry about not getting killed. The yard was small, its offices shabby, and there couldn't be more than a dozen officers left in the station; but that was still twelve people, and without Elizabeth's goodwill.

Wonderful.

Booker didn't think he was quite up to conjuring any crows or fireballs just yet, and he certainly wasn't capable of mowing through a dozen men. He'd have to think of something else.

The propane tank sat under its swath of tarred canvas, daring him to do something truly stupid.

Well, what the Hell. He stood abruptly, prompting shouts of recognition and alarm from the stairwell, and threw himself onto the skyline. The rail let off an earsplitting screech and a shower of sparks as the spinning hooks scraped against the rusted surface, but it still managed to carry him safely around to a platform on the other side of the yard. Shots cracked around him as he dropped to the uneven planks, sending splinters and chips of brick flying, but he was already moving again, down the stairs and into what turned out to be the holding cells. Several more men were jailed inside, their possessions scattered across a table in the center of the room. Among these were a large jar of Fink's Invigorating Salts and several shells that looked like they belonged to a revolver; he hastily snatched up the former, grimacing at the taste, but saw no sign of the weapon in question and so gave up on taking the latter. His vigors would have to do for now.

Booker edged out the door and turned to speak to Elizabeth, only to find the shackles lying empty in the dirt and the girl herself racing up the stairs.

"Oh, for God's sake."

He didn't have time for this. Cursing her under his breath, he made his way along the back wall to where the metal tank sat. He hadn't been spotted yet, but that was likely to change in roughly the next twenty seconds.

His initial estimation of the quality of this establishment turned out to be correct: the tank was constructed of some cheap metal that parted like cheesecloth, shrieking in feeble protest, before the blades of his skyhook. Propane spat out across the dirt, filling his nose and mouth with its acrid stench; he jumped backwards and made his way over to the pillory, pausing every few strides to exchange shotgun blasts with the officers that had caught up with him.

The prisoners watched curiously as he hammered at the lock with the butt of his rifle between the peppering bursts of gunfire.

"My regards to Daisy Fitzroy," he told them; they looked between each other and nodded to him, and then they were gone, scuttling away towards the hole Elizabeth had torn in the wall. One of Booker's pursuers broke off and ran after them, only to be summarily impeded by a precise round from the shotgun. Three down, ten to go, and closing fast. Booker forced himself to stand still as the officers surrounded him, waiting for them to all be within range.

"Surrender!" one of them shouted, glaring at him down the sights of a Hotchkiss machine gun. Booker just grinned brittlely and flicked his hand. There was a brief delay; then, with a muffled _whoomph_ , the spilled propane ignited, roaring instantaneously into a maelstrom of blue-white fire. Booker jumped from the pillory and caught the skyline as the flames licked outwards, latching onto the officers' boots and jackets and faces in indifference to their screams. Hot wind whipped him as he sailed past, and he clenched the hook into its fastest speed. Where was Elizabeth?

The line came to an end over another row of jetties and there she was, running past the docks with a visible hitch to her gait. She was tiring; but then again, so was Booker. He reached the end of the line and dropped wearily to the boards, forced to pause for breath in spite of his dire urgency.

And then suddenly he was airborne, having been struck squarely amidships by what felt like a large and angry locomotive. He flew backwards, hit the wall, and rolled groaning to the ground, half-blind with pain and the force of the blow. Peering stupidly upwards, he beheld something impossible2: a man in a mechanical suit of cast bronze and twisting cloth pipes, crouching and still nearly eight feet tall for it. His breathing was labored, his skin pale and waxy, and his eyes so heavily shadowed that they looked bruised; but in spite of this, there was no weakness or unsuriety to his movements.

" _False Shepherd_!" the creature bellowed in a tinny artificial voice, and swung out again. Booker was caught under the chest and lifted high into the air, tumbling head over heels in a steep arc over the edge of the dock. He hit a cargo crate suspended from a nearby crane, rolled, and managed to come to a shaky crouch inches from the edge. The crate rocked dangerously and he clung to the oil-slick boards, trying to bite back the welling terror at the vast empty void swaying beneath him. The crate bucked again, nearly dislodging him; his faithful Springfield, shaken loose by his unexpected flight, slithered from the lip of his bag and went spinning out of view, lost forever.

He couldn't even bring himself to to try and make a grab for it as it passed, so concerned was he with maintaining his uncertain balance atop the swinging cargo crate. Then the metal-bound monstrosity ripped a bollard from its mooring and hurled it like a discus; it struck the crate with unerring aim, splintering it into two, and Booker was tipped out into empty air again. He yelled and reached out, catching the lip of the jetty with one hand as he fell past; for a moment his plunge was slowed, but then his weakened wrist gave out, and he was tumbling downwards again. There was nothing to break his fall this time, nothing he could do but snatch helplessly at empty air and watch as the city streamed away overhead—

—And then there was canvas beneath him, grainy-gray and billowing, and he caught a trailing rope and was snapped roughly against the envelope of a dirigible that had very definitely not been there a moment before. Booker looked up, eyes stinging from the wind of his fall. Elizabeth was standing at the edge of the wharf with her arms flung wide, pale with the effort of keeping the airship in place. There was no sign of the mechanical man; either the creature was confident that it had disposed of him, or perhaps it had simply decided that he wasn't worth the effort.

As the airship drew even with the edge of the wharf, Elizabeth lowered her hands, turned, and stalked off down the gangway. "Do not attempt to follow me, Mr. DeWitt," she called in his direction, without even so much as a glance over her shoulder.

He could barely manage to do anything other than cling to the side of the dirigible and shake, and it took him several tries before his throat would work enough for him to speak.

"Elizabeth, wait!" he called hoarsely."I've made an arrangement to get our airship back!"

That made her stop, at least, though she didn't turn around. "Oh, really? You can get us out of here?"

"Yes!" Booker hesitated. "All we have to do is, uh, is find enough weapons to arm an entire uprising." Even as he said it, it sounded completely impossible. Elizabeth scoffed.

"And where will get these weapons? From one of our many friends and allies?"

"A gunsmith in Finkton. Should be a walk in the park," he said, doing his best to sound reassuring and, as usual, summarily failing. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at him, raising her eyebrows derisively, and Booker winced. It would have been a relief to realize what a terrible liar he had become3, if he hadn't so desperately needed for her to believe him.

"So what do you say?" he asked, a trifle lamely, and offered her the hand not currently entangled in the ropes lacing the side of the airship. "Partners?"

Elizabeth spun away with a toss of her hair. "You're a liar, Mr. DeWitt, and a thug," she said, and he sighed, his hand drooping. It was no less than could be expected, of course, but—"But you're also my only means of reaching Paris."

She turned back to him, took his hand, and pulled him onto the wharf beside her, immediately jerking free again; then she spun on her heel without another word and headed off down the unfamiliar wharf, towards a large and official-looking pair of double doors set beneath an awning at the far end. Booker hurried after her, relief tangling through his ribs alongside something that was not quite despair. What had he done to her?

 _You betrayed her, you sorry son of a bitch,_ the voice in the back of his head reminded him. To that, he had no argument; he just walked alongside Elizabeth, glancing at her every few seconds only to tear his gaze away whenever she came too close to catching him.

She sensed his eyes on her all the same and said, still in that icy tone, "Don't get too comfortable with my company, Mr. DeWitt. You are a means to an end, no more."

Well. So that was what that felt like. He sighed mournfully, but didn't try and respond; he doubted there was much he'd be able to say anyway.

The doors at the wharf's terminus had a brass plaque mounted on the lintel, informing them that passage to Finkton was reserved for workers, and that all paperwork must be in order before entry would be allowed. Booker frowned up at it.

"What do you think?"

"There can't be any harm in going inside. Perhaps they have copies of this paperwork on hand."

"Somehow this don't strike me as an establishment that likes to make things so convenient," Booker said dryly, and Elizabeth made a sound of agreement that might have been a laugh.

"There's nothing for it, I suppose. We may as well see what's inside."

"After you."

He followed her through the doors, glancing around with eyebrows raised. The floors and furnishings were polished oak, the counters and ceilings marble; every surface, it seemed, had gilded edging of some kind or another. Long lines of prospective workers filed up before a row of desks, each one manned by a bored-looking clerk. Behind the row of desks was an elevator, guarded by an automaton in a fine silk evening suit. After the dingy soot-stained squalor of Beggars' Wharf, the warm glittering luxury, reminiscent of the Columbia they had left behind, was disorienting.

"Look, Mr. DeWitt. Over there."

"Huh?" He glanced up from examining an inkwell that appeared to be made of real gold to follow Elizabeth's pointing finger. One of the newer-looking posters on the wall, emblazoned with a pair of crossed revolvers, was announcing the grand opening of a gunsmith's shop owned by someone named Chen Lin. Booker fished the card from his pocket and consulted it.

"That would be our gunsmith," Elizabeth confirmed, reading over his shoulder and frowning. "Who sent you to find this person, anyways?"

"Daisy Fitzroy."

"Do you mean the anarchist Daisy Fitzroy, scourge of Columbia, murderess of my own fair and pious mother?" There was a taint of mockery to her words, a bitterness seeping into the places that had so recently been full of innocence. " _That_ Daisy Fitzroy?"

Booker winced. "That's the one, yeah."

To his surprise, this was met with an almost agreeable shrug. "She's either a great hero or the worst of scoundrels, depending on who's doing the telling," she said. "Her name certainly seems to be following us around, doesn't it?"

Booker had noticed that as well, and had been doing his best to ignore it. "If she's good for an airship, I don't care if she's the queen of Holland. Come on, let's see which line we're supposed to be in."

They crossed the shiny floor to the furthest of the desks, where an altercation appeared to be taking place between the clerk and the man at the front of the queue. The man was insisting that all of his forms were in order, and the clerk was insisting that it didn't matter, for there was no work to be found. Indeed, the automaton guarding the elevator doors jerked to life when they entered its radius, announcing in that tinny, cheerful voice of its that "Fink Industries recruitment is not looking for any help. You hear that? No help!"

Elizabeth's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Excellent. Now how are we going to get into Finkton?"

Booker considered his surroundings briefly until he caught sight of a likely-looking cordon. "Illegally. Come on, let's look for another way in."

They ducked around the velveteen ropes and found themselves at the entrance to a small office marked ' _Employees Only_.' It was as good a start as any; Booker kept watch while Elizabeth picked the lock, but what few guards were present were all occupied with the argument between clerk and prospective worker, which was quickly escalating in a direction that in his experience normally ended in blows. Then the door clicked open, and the two of them slipped through unnoticed.

The space beyond was small and dimly-lit, but no less opulent for it. The oaken floorboards faded to soft green carpet under their feet, and the chairs at the desks all had padded cushions on their seats. At the end of the aisle was a flight of stairs leading to a lower story. They headed down cautiously, pressed close to the wall—and with good cause, as it turned out, for the lower floor was milling with clerks and guards under the watchful eye of one of those Patriot automatons.

Booker jerked back against the banister before they could be spotted. "Ah, shit."

"What are we going to do now?"

"Just give me a minute, I'll think of something." He edged to the rail of the landing and peered over. Nothing caught his eye: no flicker of fire or flutter of wings for him to pull on. But there, around the edges of the automaton itself, was a grainy distortion...

The first vigor he'd gotten here worked on machines, didn't it? Booker had completely forgotten about that. He flexed his fingers ruminatively, reached out, and gave the Patriot's edges an experimental tug. The automaton's eyes shivered from orange to green, and moments later its Gatling gun roared to life, mowing down three of the officers around it before the others gathered the presence of mind to leap out of the way.

There were yells of confusion and alarm, and one of the clerks cried, "Who's there?"

Several coppers charged up the stairs, to be greeted amicably by the shotgun; the rest fell in quick succession to the inexorable march of the poetical automaton. Within less than two minutes, silence had fallen once more.

"Well," Elizabeth said, staring dumbly down at the carnage, "that was easy."

Booker looked down at his hand, which was still stuttering slightly with the green haze of the vigor. "Damn, I should've thought'a that sooner. C'mon, let's get out of here before someone else comes along to see what all the fuss was."

They descended the stairs together, Elizabeth in the lead and Booker warily watching their tail, but no doors burst open, no shouts echoed. The Fink offices were eerily quiet.

The Patriot turned and followed them with its blank enameled eyes as they passed. "'Gainst savage man or foreign horde, 'tis Comstock who takes up the sword," it informed them politely.

"Uh. Hello to you too," said Booker, and Elizabeth huffed out a slightly grudging laugh.

The two of them paced back and forth across the lush carpet in silence, searching for anything that might be of use. Booker rifled through drawers, finding several cartons of buckshot and a handful of coins, but no indication as to how to enter Finkton; Elizabeth paused to investigate a row of 'Wanted' posters tacked over one of the desks, and then frowned.

"Look at this one, Mr. DeWitt. ' _The Gunsmith Chen Lin—Wanted for known connections to the outlaw Daisy Fitzroy_ '."

Booker crossed the room to join her and studied the charcoal-sketched likeness. A narrow, gaunt face, framed on one side by a long neat braid, stared back at him."Looks like our guy's drawn attention."

"That's not good, is it?"

"I've had better news," he admitted, and sighed. "Let's keep looking. There's gotta be some way for the higher-ups to get into the district."

They parted again, but Elizabeth called him back less than a minute later. "Over here, Mr. DeWitt! I've found a service elevator, look."

He followed her back across the office to a solid, slightly shabby green door set between two rows of equipment lockers. A few of these stood open, and she peered into each while he hit the button that called up the lift. "Look at this! It's Slate's locker. He must have worked here."

Booker peered over her shoulder as she poked through the locker's contents. The paper tag attached to its dented door did, as it turned out, read ' _Slate, Cornelius J.'_ in the man's nigh-illegible scrawl.

"How about that," Booker said, more surprised than he really ought to have been. He smiled in a manner that was almost fond. _You're a man of many mysteries, you crooked old bastard_. It might even have been a shame that the man was dead, he thought, if he hadn't put them through nine levels of Hell on his suicidal crusade.

Elizabeth shifted a jacket aside and came up with a battered leather-bound journal. She turned the cover casually, and then her whole body gave a jolt as if she had been shocked. "This—this is my mother's _diary_ ," she said, high and strangled. "Why would Slate have it?"

Booker froze. If she found out the truth about Anna now, when her trust in him was barely hanging on by a thread as it was...

She paged forwards to roughly the middle of the book, frowning, and read aloud: "' _March the fourteenth, eighteen ninety-three._ '

"' _And so I have bent to my father's will after all. I wonder if my decisions will ever truly be my own, but for now, I trade the prison of New York for that of Columbia. I can only hope this new warden will be kinder than the last._ '"

Did her eyes flick to him at the mention of New York, or was it his imagination? Booker bit his tongue and tried fruitlessly to quell a rising sensation of nausea. No doubt 'this warden' meant Comstock, and he had a sneaking notion as to who 'the last' was as well. Little of his old love for the woman remained, but her death was still on his shoulders no matter how he sliced it.

Elizabeth didn't notice his moment of quiet turmoil, though. She had flipped to the end of the book and stopped, one hand over her mouth. The diary's final yellowed pages were flecked with streaks and flakes of rust-brown blood, and she swallowed hard before continuing to read in a dry, small voice.

"' _January the third, eighteen ninety-six._ '

"' _And so it has come to this. There is nothing left of me that is my own: my life, my will, my name; even my own blood, my darling Beth_ '—" here she paused, and took a deep, shuddering breath— "' _has been stolen from me by the man who calls himself a prophet and a husband. I know now that this is the way it must always be. I traded one prison for another and was surprised at being caged, but no more. I can suffer Zachary's lies no longer. If I have learned but one lesson, let it be this: while I live, I will never be free from the tyranny of men._ '

"' _Yet that is the one thing, it seems, that is still mine. My very life is the last thing I own, and so I will take it as my right. I belong to myself and no-one else, and I would rather die on my own terms than live by others' crueler whims._ '

"' _I suppose, in a way, that I am glad._ '"

Elizabeth clutched the book a moment longer, blank-faced, her eyes focused on nothing; Booker stared at the wall, equally blind to his surroundings. They'd been right, then, Lutece—and it had been them all along, hadn't it6—when they'd told him she was dead by her own hand, and right again in saying that she'd been driven to it by his actions just as much as by Comstock's.

Being able to share the burden of a human life didn't really warm him to the man, or make him feel any better at all. He just felt empty.

"My father," Elizabeth said dully, and the utter weariness in her voice struck him like a blow. "H-he took me from her when I was just a baby! Why? What did he—what did he _want_ from me?"Her eyes were red and her voice hoarse, but she did not cry, only stood there shaking and digging her fingers into the crumpled pages of the diary. Booker went over to her, unable to offer much comfort; his stomach and lungs were twisted into knots, and he felt light-headed and distant, all at once furious and despondent and heavy under the inexorable weight of dull, leaden guilt.

"Elizabeth..."

She looked up at him, clutching her mother's journal to her chest with one hand and scrubbing at her eyes with the other sleeve. "I just want to get out of this city, Booker. _Please_."

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Come on." He shadowed her into the waiting lift, wanting to touch her shoulder, her hand, to make sure she was all right, and yet all the same painfully aware of just how much trust he would have to earn back first.

The machinery around them creaked and groaned as they descended past level after level of assembly lines, packing plants, and one floor that looked suspiciously like a vigor brewery. Booker was just beginning to wonder exactly how big this building really was when the elevator lurched to a halt, its glass-paned wall overlooking a lovely view of a cinderblock wall.

"Finally," he said, but Elizabeth sniffed and shook her head.

"I don't think we're there yet. Could we have broken down?"

"I suppose. Let's hope we don't encounter any more bees," he muttered, only half-joking, and that prompted a weak smile. Well, so that was something, at least; her indignance had been too much to hope for just yet.

A muffled jangling sound right next to his ear made him jump and look wildly around. There was a panel set roughly at eye level into the elevator's wall behind him, labeled ' _Intercom_ ' in thick capital letters. It was from behind this that the noise had come; he prized it warily aside to find a brass-plated telephone, perched incongruously within the little niche.

It rang again. He stared at it, glanced at Elizabeth, and was relieved to see that she appeared just as confused as he felt.

"Maybe you should pick that up? Or..." She trailed off, shrugging helplessly. Slowly, as if afraid it might explode—and at this point, a part of him honestly expected it to—Booker lifted the receiver from its cradle and held it to his ear.

"Uh, hello?"

The voice on the other end was female and vaguely harried. "Mr. DeWitt?"

"...Yes?"

"Hold for Mr. Fink, please."

Booker held the receiver away from himself so that he could glare at it in irritated bafflement. What the Hell was this all about? And how did this Fink even know he was here?

"DeWitt," said a different voice, one he recognized immediately as the creator of the recorded announcements, "Fink here. Listen, my boy, we've had our eye on you, and I can tell you right now, you are our top candidate! Top! Now, my associate, Mr. Flambeau, will help you with anything you need."There was a vaguely forced-sounding laugh, and the line went dead once more. The elevator lurched back to life, leaving Booker staring stupidly at the telephone, half-laughing out of sheer bewilderment and feeling like he had just missed something both very important and very ominous.

Elizabeth seemed similarly concerned. "What on Earth was that?"

"I have no idea," Booker said.

"He seems... oddly pleased to make your acquaintance."

He just shrugged in response, unable to provide any theories. Then the lift emerged into sunlight, and the telephone call was summarily forgotten. Finkton was spread out before them, a massive forest of smokestacks and chimneys and hulking, dirty factories; and there, in the center of it all, was a statue of Jeremiah Fink. It was easily ten stories tall or more, and plated in something that was either gold or impeccably-maintained brass; Booker had to squint to keep from being blinded by the light thrown off of it.

"Well," Elizabeth said, in a slightly strangled tone of voice, "the man's got an ego."

That wasn't the only thing. As soon as the gilded visage came into view, Booker knew where he'd heard that laughing voice before. He was the announcer from the fair.

"Oh, Christ, not this guy again."

"What—you know him?"

He snorted. "Not in any amiable sense. The fellow's a piece'a shit, I can tell you that much right now. D'you have any idea what Columbia's idea of a lottery is?"

"I... I mean I know what _a_ lottery is, but I'm not certain whose version I've been given," said Elizabeth, nonplussed.

"Well, the day I first came to Columbia, it was some holiday or other—"

"Founder's Day," she supplied promptly. "It had to be."

"That's the one. Anyhow, I ended up winnin' their raffle, only the prize was—was everyone threw their raffle balls at a couple tied up on stage, and I'm fair certain they meant to kill 'em. Pretty sure it was because he was white and she wasn't. We met them later, y'know. At Battleship Bay, remember?"

She looked at him with her head tipped to one side. "That was that couple? Yes, I remember. They said you saved their lives."

"Well, what else was I supposed to do? Throw the damn ball at them? I seen people kill for stupider reasons—Hell, I've killed people for stupider reasons—but I still wasn't going to just stand around and let it happen."

Elizabeth just stood there with that inscrutable look on her face. It wasn't quite a scowl, and nor was it a smile; in truth, she looked a bit confused. Several times, she seemed as if she were about to speak, but she always cut herself off again. Then the elevator ground to a clanging halt at last, and the doors chimed open to reveal a dingy and dimly-lit lobby. The floorboards were warped and unfinished, the walls raw brick, and every surface was coated in soot and dust, all of which served to make the man standing in the center of it all look very incongruous indeed. He was dressed in a black velvet smoking jacket and a pair of truly atrocious paisley trousers8, his shoulder-length blond hair tucked neatly into his collar; on a small portable table beside him sat an array of salts, medicines, and an exquisite brass-and-walnut Colt Army Special, with four boxes of rounds stacked beside it. The man smiled and inclined his head in a shallow bow when Booker and Elizabeth stepped from the lift, the former slowly edging his hand towards the shotgun in his rucksack.

"Mr. DeWitt," the man said. His voice was bland, dry, and devoid of any inflection whatsoever. "Welcome to Finkton. I can assure you that violence will not be necessary; I am merely an emissary, here to assure you of Mr. Fink's goodwill. You'll find a variety of supplies here that should see you through your visit."

Elizabeth's hackles had raised, and she stepped towards the stranger with her fists clenched tight. "What does Fink want with us?"

"Excuse me, Miss, but Mr. Fink's interest is strictly in the gentleman," he said in that same bland monotone. His eyes remained fixedly ahead; his head didn't even twitch in her direction.

"But why—"

"So sorry, young miss, but any questions regarding the gentleman's application should be taken up with Mr. Fink directly." The man gestured broadly to the assortment of supplies and stepped aside, clearly done conversing. Elizabeth glared at Booker as if to say, _Make him do something_ , but he was as lost as she was. He was fairly certain this was a trap, but the man just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, smiling slightly. Booker picked up the revolver very cautiously and turned it over in his hands. It was heavy and cool, already loaded, and currently failing to bite him or exhibit any out-of-the-ordinary behavior whatsoever.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. A gesture of good faith from Mr. Fink. Please visit him at your earliest convenience." No further elaboration was provided; Booker stared the man down resentfully, but no reaction was forthcoming either. He didn't even blink.

"C'mon, Elizabeth," he muttered finally, brushing past the unnerving stranger and out into the sunlight without another word. The door of the lobby shut behind them with an ominously final-sounding _click_ , and they found themselves in Finkton at last.

If the scene at Beggar's Wharf had been dismal, Finkton proper was entirely desolate. The streets were mud, the ramshackle shelters sprouting like mushrooms on either side built of cardboard and corrugated iron; trash clogged the gutters, and the air stunk of smoke and rot. Those few workers not actively toiling were hunched inside themselves, moving quickly, trying not to attract attention. Policemen armed with pistols and nightsticks loitered at every corner, sneering at anyone who got too close.

"That might pose a problem," Elizabeth said. "Perhaps we should cut through that clock shop over there; it might help to avoid attention." She pointed to a dilapidated, sagging pile of bricks and rotting wood about halfway down the nearest block. Its windows were boarded, but its door hung open: either it had already been gutted, or else had contained nothing worth looting in the first place. If nothing else, it would be a good place to regroup and assess their current situation.

"Good idea."

They skirted around the edge of the courtyard, staying out of the way, making for the ramshackle shop. Upon nudging the door open, they found that it had in fact been ransacked, but not by vandals: municipal sawhorses bisected the single room, and posters papered the wall, every one of them reading ' _Vox Sympathizers—Assets Seized_.'

Elizabeth shut the door behind them as they entered and barred it with a three-legged chair. Booker turned to her in mild alarm, wondering what she could possibly be planning, but she just stood there with her arms folded across her chest, clutching her mother's diary to her and frowning at the dusty floorboards.

"I figured you'd rather not have a lengthy discussion anywhere we'd be in danger of being discovered by the guards," she said, "but now that we're out of sight, I need answers."

"You're gonna have to give me more to go on than that. What's going on?"

Elizabeth ran a finger down the cover of her mother's diary. "It has been obvious from the beginning, Mr. DeWitt, that your coming here was more than just a coincidence. There's only one subject that you've been consistently evasive about, and that's this woman named Anna. So before we go any further, you're going to tell me everything."

Then she did suspect, if she wasn't already certain. Booker sighed, slumped against the wall, and ran a hand through his hair. "No chance. You hate me enough as it is."

She didn't dispute this. "You're not getting out of this, Mr. DeWitt. I want you to tell me exactly what you did that was so bad you felt you had to come here and kidnap me in order to escape from it."

"I don't suppose there's any way I could dissuade you, is there?"

"None."

"And I'm guessing you won't hesitate to find creative means of persuasion, neither."

"You catch on fast, Mr. DeWitt, I'll give you that much."

He looked at her, standing there with her arms folded and her eyes full of ice, and knew there'd be no getting out of this one. It was time to face the music, one way or another. He sighed again and said wearily, "Then I want you to promise me something first."

"I don't see how you're in any position to negotiate," said Elizabeth. Her expression remained unwaveringly cold.

"Elizabeth, promise me."

The girl hesitated, and then glanced away. "Tell me what it is, and I'll consider it."

"Don't run off again," he said, aware of how desperate he sounded and hating every inch of it. "You're gonna want to, but please, let me get you _out_ of this goddamn city, all right? I don't care what happens after. You can take French leave as soon as we land, and I'll watch you go and count myself granted a mercy. But let me see you safely out of here first."

"It's that bad, then?" Elizabeth said, her scowl growing that much deeper. "Well, I can't say I didn't suspect as much. Very well, Mr. DeWitt. You have yourself a deal."

"Call me 'Booker'," he responded automatically, and then abated with a rueful twist of his mouth. Fat chance of that right about now. "And you might wanna sit down."

Not breaking eye contact, Elizabeth brushed aside several large gears and settled herself on the edge of a worktable. "No more stalling," she said," and no more excuses. Don't think I haven't noticed you changing the subject every time I bring it up. Anna was the one Comstock said you killed, wasn't she? Tell me who she was to you."

"Well, when you put it that way," he muttered, but she was clearly in no mood for humor, and his was rapidly draining away as well. "Now, first off—so don't start throwing things at me just yet—yes, she's dead, all right? Has been for closer now to two decades than one, and I'm still payin' for it. Hell, I came up here to try and clear out some debts—"

"—By _kidnapping_ me, thank you very much."

"Hey, you were the one callin' it a rescue up until yesterday. I know, I know!" he added hastily, raising both hands as the air around Elizabeth began to shudder. The mere notion that she was realizing she could use her power offensively was terrifying enough on its own, but thankfully she subsided after only a moment, still glowering. "Anyhow—and I want to warn you again against the throwing, because if you break my nose I ain't telling you the rest."

Elizabeth's face was drawing tighter by the second, her lip starting to curl upwards into a snarl. In a tone that somehow managed to be simultaneously sardonic and deeply venomous, she said, "You're stalling again, have you noticed?"

"Okay, look. You want to know about what brought me here? Fine." He stared up at the ceiling, not sure whether he preferred to watch the girl's reaction or to avoid eye contact with her entirely. "Anna Dressel was a girl I knew, back when I first moved to the city. And—for near on a year and a half, anyway—" He glanced down briefly, swallowed, and tried his feeble best at a rueful grin— "she was my wife."

The pure speechless incredulity that flooded Elizabeth's face at that was almost worth the price of admission. She opened and closed her mouth a few times before managing to sputter, "Your _what?_ "

"What, you thought I sat around in an office all day feelin' sorry for myself or something? I told you already I'd had someone, didn't I?"

"I don't think I realized it was quite that... official," she said sourly, glaring at the floor.

"It sure didn't last long, if that eases your burden any."

"Thanks, but it really, really doesn't."

"You want the story, or not?"

"I'm starting to think I don't, but you're not getting off so easy. Keep talking."

The thin smile she gave him was entirely mirthless. How had she become so cynical so fast? Booker looked at his hands, at the faded ridges of Anna's death still carved into his skin.

"She was a senator's daughter, a few years older'n me. Real pretty, like—" He cut himself off just in time, well aware of how saying ' _like you_ ' would go over at this point. It was bad enough as it was. "Well. Seemed every guy in Brooklyn was a little in love with her at times."

"I'll just bet," Elizabeth said coldly, and he snorted despite himself.

"At the risk of invoking another snide comment, I got no idea what she saw in me. I think her father might've pushed her into it, but who knows. I really did love her, though. Completely smitten, like an idiot. She was stubborn and clever an' powerful pretty, and proud as all Hell. I thought she was the most wonderful person in the world, though that didn't last too long. I was twenty when we got hitched, and stupid, just back from my stint in the army and too fond of killin' to much care what happened to anyone else. I got a job with the Pinkertons, and that suited me just fine, but it never sat with Anna. She hated violence. The longer she was with me, the unhappier she got, but I never noticed. 'Course not, right? All I cared about was me."

"What a shock."

"Hey, can it with the peanut gallery, okay? These ain't exactly fond memories as it is."

Did Elizabeth smile, even as she heaved an exaggerated sigh? In the dim light of the abandoned shop, it was a little difficult to tell. "Sorry."

"We argued a lot, towards the end. Then I took a job going against a man called Delaney—a big-name New York criminal, and a nastier piece of work there never was—but it all went south, and a bunch of people got killed. Not just crooks, but _people_ , bystanders, and this didn't bother me nearly as much as it should have. I'd botched things and what rankled me was losing my mark, not getting a dozen civilians caught in the middle of some damn Harlem gunfight. Anyhow, we fought, and I said some things. Anna gave as good as she got, of course, but in the end I guess she saw it was hopeless. She just... got up and left, right in the middle of the biggest row you ever saw. I thought she'd gone off to clear her head or, or somethin', and that she'd come back in a while, only she never did."

Elizabeth was silent, stone-faced. Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the table beside her, but this was the least roundabout he could be. Every word hurt, like he was forcing each one out through his skin. "I got lost after that. She'd been the only thing keeping my head above the water at all, and, well, with her gone—"

When he ran his hand down the side of his face, he noticed it was shaking. When had he started shaking? "I'll spare you the details, but rest assured it... wasn't pretty. A lotta drink, a lot of debts. A couple of deaths, things that got called 'casualties of the job' but felt a whole damn lot like murder. You know. Then, about a year later, I got a letter. A letter. It's so—it's so _fuckin_ ' stupid."

Was he laughing? Why was he laughing? Elizabeth was clutching the diary to her chest as if it would shield her, her eyes wide and stricken. She'd asked for the truth about Anna, and she was getting it; there was no way she'd ever trust him again. Right at that moment, though, Booker couldn't even bring himself to care. He was falling down a slope and there was nothing below to break his fall.

"She got married again," he said. "Moved away, found a nice husband. A preacher-man, all respectable and everything. Turns out she even had a kid—and then, _bam_!" He snapped his fingers and Elizabeth jumped with a sharp startled intake of breath."Blew her own damn brains out, just like that. And all anyone saw fit to give me was a letter. All nice and tidy and 'Dear Mister DeWitt' and 'our utmost condolences' and 'oh, by the way, she said it was your fault'. Guess it turned out she really did." He jerked his head at the book. The motion made Elizabeth jerk backwards again, looking down at it with wide white-edged eyes.

"Her dying woke up a part of me I'd thought was gone, and I swore I'd never go down that road I'd walked—with the Pinkertons and... and before, at Wounded Knee—ever again. Never thought I'd cross Anna's path again, neither, but I guess it's a small world."

He fell silent, having found the bottom of his pit sooner than expected and unsure of what to do about it. His throat hurt and he felt heavy and empty and limp, as if his bones had turned to sackcloth or sand.

Elizabeth swallowed. It took several moments for her to find her voice, and when she did, it was scarcely more than a horrified whisper. "My—?"

"Yeah."

"My _mother_?"

"...Yeah."

"You— _you—!_ " She leapt abruptly from the table, looking about ready to commit a few murders herself, and Booker edged away warily.

"Hey, come on, we can talk this out. I'll make it go away, I can—" He broke off, stopping before he dug himself even deeper. Elizabeth didn't respond; she just stood there swaying, clenching and unclenching her fists. The floor of the decrepit shop began to tremble, and then the walls; the vibrations escalated from a murmur to a quake, and all around her the air began to writhe and boil, leaching the room of color and texture. Wrenches and gears rained from the sagging shelves, and the floorboards warped and cracked. Booker felt his ears pop, and started edging backwards again as if it would do him any good. For the first time, he found himself asking the very question she had sobbed so desperately at him:

 _What_ is _she?_

Elizabeth straightened up, visibly forcing herself to calm down, and after several agonizing moments the tremors began to abate. When she spoke, her voice shook as fiercely as the room had, and her words came out bitten and ragged.

"Is that why you wanted me? Because of her?"

"What? No! I dunno how Samuels even heard of you, but I swear to God I had no idea you were—"

"That's not what I meant," she said, her fury being replaced now by a cracked desperation. "All of, of _that_ , at Soldiers' Field. That, that was what, exactly? You were in love with my mother and then I—I was the next best thing? Did you think kissing me would make me forgive you for this, or did you just want to pretend I was her?"

"Come on, Elizabeth, it's not like that—"

"Don't you 'come on, Elizabeth' me! All of this is your fault! You used me and tricked me and thought I wouldn't notice! All this time you were lying to me, and I _trusted_ you!"

"I wasn't—"

Elizabeth's voice had risen into a shout. " _I thought you were my friend!_ "

"I was—I am— _Elizabeth_. C'mon, just look at me." She didn't. Booker plowed on anyways. He'd never been any good at this sort of thing, but if he stopped now, it would all remain unsaid, and he couldn't do this anymore. "You are not your mother, all right? She's got nothing to do with it, except that what happened to her is all on me. Even if I never repay that, I've gotta keep trying."Elizabeth didn't look up. She'd hunched over her knees and wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her head into the little hollow, and still she said nothing. Booker took a deep breath. "I never met someone like you before. I could've never met Anna, and I still would've—"

He stopped. Elizabeth raised her head the scarcest fraction of an inch, but still didn't turn. "And I swear to you," he said, "I never meant to give you to the man in New York. All I wanted was to show him that you weren't a threat to him, and we were gonna go. Paris, anywhere, wherever you wanted."

Even still, Elizabeth refused to raise her eyes to him, but her shoulders straightened and her fingers tightened against her arms. "I am a threat."

The weary, sullen defiance in her tone made him smile sadly. "Trust me, you've proved that well enough. Problem is, people have a nasty habit of trying to eliminate threats. Samuels is a two-bit unreliable sack of shit, but he doesn't give up easy. I just wanted to make sure. I'm sick of fighting, Elizabeth. And I promise, I _promise_ I never meant to—" Booker's voice broke. He swallowed hard and slumped down against the table next to her, suddenly exhausted. That old familiar numbness was settling in again. He just wanted to be done with this city.

At last, Elizabeth lifted her face to him. Her eyes were swimming with tears, but she was as composed as ever, gazing up at him expressionlessly. "I believe you," she said finally, in a hoarse, stuffy voice. "I cannot forgive you, not for this. But I believe you."

It wasn't much, but it was something. He didn't think he had it in him to smile, not right now, so he just gave her a rueful sort of sigh and offered her a hand."Truce?"

There was a long silence, in which he feared she would reject him, but then she rocked forwards enough to gingerly shake it.

"Truce." She sniffed, stood, and wiped her eyes with one grubby sleeve; with all the fury drained from her, she seemed scarcely more than a child again. "Let's get out of here. We still have an uprising to arm, after all."

_..._

* * *

1\. Which he rarely was, even still; honestly, this tendency of bestubbled antiheroes to deny their own thought processes is quite beyond me.  
2\. Mr. DeWitt's list of what constituted 'impossible' had been growing awfully thin of late; still, he was a stubborn individual who would insist upon remaining firmly entrenched in his misguided beliefs of what was and was not possible. If one had told him, for instance, that another city in another time existed entirely underwater, he probably would have laughed.  
3\. Now that is an interesting development. I hold little faith that it means all that much in the grand scheme of things, brother dearest, but I'll admit you may have been right to insist on us keeping an eye on this one. Let's see how far it gets him4.  
4\. I _told_ you. What say we make a wager of it, then 5?  
5\. You're on.  
6\. So he finally figured it out, did he? Took him long enough7.  
7\. Seventeen years, as a matter of fact. I was going to be surprised at his complete inability to deduce the obvious, but now I realize I was greatly overestimating the man.  
...That doesn't mean I concede our little wager, sister dearest, so you can cease that smugness this instant if you please.  
8\. Quite the critic, isn't he. A downright savant in the modes of our time, wouldn't you say? And what's wrong with paisley?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO RAISE YOUR HANDS IF YOU SAW THAT ONE COMING, EH? EHHHH? (All of you probably did, but whatever.) How did I do? Did my foreshadowing line up okay? Let me know what y'all think!   
>  One last thing: I caved and indulged myself, so The Chosen and the Beloved now has 100% more TVTropes entry! Go forth and check it out: http://tvtropes.org/Fanfic/TheChosenAndTheBeloved/   
>  Aaaaand of course, stay tuned next for **The Midden-Heap Rag** —in which there is a lot of fighting, and Booker and Elizabeth are Very Bad at acknowledging their problems. Maybe it won't take three months this time, but who am I kidding.


	11. The Midden-Heap Rag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha. Ahahahahaha. Hahaha. Ha.
> 
> I have no excuse.
> 
> I'm sure that at this point anyone who's reading this is either new to the story—in which case, welcome! I'm so sorry—or is infinitely more patient than I could ever be—in which case, what the fuck, your patience is incredible. Also, I'm so sorry. Y'all deserve some kind of medal, or at least an author who can put chapters out more frequently than _once a fucking year_.  
>  This chapter is mostly fighting, too, which really just makes it worse. I guess that's what happens when you try to novelize a first-person shooter. Also, warning for an oblique? reference? to Lutecest? It's very brief, but, y'know. Just fyi.  
>  (As if half-implied [canon](http://twitter.com/iglevine/status/614612608889585665) selfcest is going to bother anyone who's gotten this far. None of us are free from sin.)
> 
> I know I ramble in the author's notes a lot, so that's really all I have to say for the moment. Enjoy the chapter!

" _Poverty is the worst form of violence._ "  
—Mahatma Gandhi 

**CHAPTER ELEVEN:** _The Midden-Heap Rag._

 

JULY 11, 1912

Comstock's men were waiting when Booker and Elizabeth poked their heads cautiously out of the clock shop.

All of the civilians had been cleared away, and a hasty barricade had been set up around the shop entrance. As soon as Booker emerged into the open, there was a round of shouts and whistles, and the officers that had hidden themselves away on rooftops and in crannies all opened fire. He barely had time to wrench himself back inside before the spot in which he'd been standing was peppered with holes, and the brick wall of the shop started to chip and burst as well. He sidled down along the line of dubious cover to peer through the smashed window, sliding shells into the chambers of his new revolver as he did.

"Jesus _shit_! How'd they know we were here?"

"My guess?" Elizabeth's voice was still leaden and hoarse, though she was making an obvious attempt to hide it beneath a patchy layer of sarcasm. "They've got some sort of prophet on their side."

"That's an inconvenience. Someone oughta—" Booker ducked sideways to avoid a shard of wood struck from the frame by a Hotchkiss round— "someone oughta kill that bastard."

"I couldn't agree more." Elizabeth craned to see out the window beside him, though he noticed she took great care to remain as far from him as she could. Given everything that had happened, it seemed surprisingly mild. "In the meantime, do you have any suggestions?"

Booker risked another look, then jerked back as the nearest soldier finished reloading and let loose with another barrage of machine-fire. The single pane remaining in the window above them splintered dangerously, and he and Elizabeth threw themselves to either side in unison as it shattered inwards, spraying glass across the rot-twisted floorboards. Booker rolled over and raised his head above the broken sill long enough to send off a few returning shots, all the while searching for anything that might lend him some inspiration. Movement around a far corner caught his eye: a pair of officers were bringing in some sort of cannon, lashed to a cart drawn by one of those mechanical horses.

"Now that's just overkill," he muttered sourly.

Elizabeth chanced a look and snorted. "At least they're taking us seriously."

"And that makes me feel so much better. Hold on—" For the horse's edges shifted and fuzzed, dragging and stretching erratically as it clopped down the muddy street. Remembering the Patriot automaton, Booker tugged with his vigor, and the creature tossed its head and shrilled, a ratcheting noise just enough like a true horse's whinny to be deeply unsettling. It reared up, pulled free of its handlers, and went galloping spasmodically down the narrow passage, joints popping and clanging, hooves sparking, the cart bucking and swinging along behind it.

Booker and Elizabeth, as well as their entire company of opponents, watched it go in almost comical bewilderment. At the end of the lane it shied, veering to one side; the cart bounced, tilted, and then rolled over, dragging the automaton with it in a shower of sparks. There was a brief silence, and then the entire assemblage exploded.

"Well," Elizabeth said faintly, "that worked."

Booker grinned at her with rather more mirth than he felt. "No need to sound so surprised. C'mon—that was a distraction at best."

Hunched over, eyes darting from side to side, the two of them fled the clock shop. They skirted the edge of the dingy square, pausing only when necessary and only for as long as Booker needed to put a bullet through another chest or eye. He had to hand it to Fink, no matter how much of a slink the fellow was: he knew his weapons. The revolver worked smoothly, rocking back against his hand with every shot, and with every shot another soldier fell. Soon Booker had cleared a path to a sagging porch outside a blacksmith's about a hundred yards down the road; he made sure that Elizabeth was secure within the alcove before heading out to see what could be done about their remaining pursuers. There were maybe half a dozen pistol-carrying policemen, and as many more men in heavy blue canvas coats, armed with Hotchkiss machine guns or double-barreled shotguns.

_Laying the odds on a bit thick, aren't they?_ The Prophet must have been getting well and truly desperate. Booker was going to take that as a good sign, though it did make his life a hell of a lot more difficult. He lobbed a handful of embers—plenty of those to draw on, in a smithy—and waited for the officers to scatter, beating at their smoldering clothes, before leaning out again to pick them off one by one. It was slow work, but his position was the more defensible, and the rhythm of fire-duck-reload-fire was a welcome and familiar distraction from the events in which he'd become embroiled. There was something nice and simple about killing, and that had always been the problem. It made it all too easy to fall into the rhythm and get lost, but he wasn't worried. He had Elizabeth, at least for the time being.

Somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm bell rang, reminding him how well using someone else as an anchor had gone the last time, but he ignored it. There were still too many patrolmen about for him to be having existential revelations in the middle of a firefight, especially when he was armed with only a handgun. What he wouldn't give to still have his Springfield....

He craned around the edge of the smithy porch long enough to drop the nearest charging copper, then ducked back down to empty the spent shells; when he popped up again, though, the onslaught had abated and the policemen were clearing a space, backing away down the narrow shanty streets.

"Make way," one of them was shouting, and even from where he was, Booker caught the ugly, singsong delight his tone. Uh-oh. "Make way for the Handyman!"

_That can't be good_ , he thought, with his usual inspiring acuity1, and then all the windows along the street trembled in their frames as the huge metal man from Beggar's Wharf came crashing out of the sky.

So that was why it had run off: to get reinforcements. That was—that was just goddamn _typical_.

" _False Shepherd!_ " the creature bellowed as it bounded towards the blacksmith's, sounding for all the world like an irate steam engine. Idly, behind the storm of alarm and frustration, Booker wondered if that was the only thing it could say.

Then the thing swung out with one piston-strutted arm, ploughing through the porch as if it were made of matchsticks and sending Booker flying high into the air.

He was really getting tired of being thrown around like a ragdoll, he thought dazedly, and then his trajectory was cut abruptly short by the corrugated roof of another building. It took a moment for the pain of his landing to hit, and then he groaned and rolled over and curled up, trying to remember how to think. He'd broken a rib, or maybe three, and he'd been lucky. He wasn't sure how much more punishment of this caliber he could survive.

The thin ridged iron beneath him vibrated with every step the Handyman took. Then the tremors ceased, and Booker had just enough time to think _Oh, good, it's going away,_ before the roof buckled and cracked as the creature slammed down beside him. He stared blankly up at it, and perhaps it was the adrenaline heightening his senses, or perhaps it was pure luck, but he saw—there was a glass porthole in the creature's metal chest, and a beating heart beyond. That seemed like a glaring and highly convenient design flaw to him, but he wasn't about to look a gift automaton in the mouth, especially when it had as bad a set of teeth as this one did.

Did he have a concussion? He felt like he had a concussion.

The Handyman reached back, splaying a massive wood-and-brass hand out to crush him, and snarled. The time for laying around feeling sorry for himself was well past. Booker rolled out of the way just in time and skidded down the slanting roof, scarcely managing to catch the lip of it to keep himself from going over. He would not, he thought vehemently, let himself get thrown off of anything else. He let go, falling to his knees with a burst of pain, and shoved himself upright again. He limped as quickly as he could manage into the nearest alley, while the creature above roared incoherent threats. Shotgun, shotgun—thank God, but he still had it. He slipped fresh pellets in, brought out his skyhook and fitted it to his hand, and then leaned back against the grimy bricks at the end of the alley, breathing shallowly against his cracked ribs, gritting his teeth, and praying. There was another resounding _thud_ as the Handyman bounded down from the smithy roof, and then the weak smoggy light was blotted out as it hunkered down to squint into Booker's hiding place. Its pistons hissed and complained as it tried to squeeze itself through, but it was approaching, and now it had him trapped. This had to work.

The Handyman reared back and Booker lunged forward with it, plunging his skyhook into the creature's glass heart with all of his strength. The window shattered, pulling his arm aside with the retort of it, and the Handyman screamed in agony; Booker brought the shotgun up, planted his feet, and fired.

The automaton's next scream, mechanical and anguished and utterly, utterly inhuman, made Booker's ears ring. Blood and glass dripped from the gaping wound, and the creature swayed, staggered, teetered—and then, ever so slowly, began to fall.

Right on top of Booker.

He managed to hunch himself up and thus avoid being crushed, but now he was trapped in the decidedly less-than-fragrant hollow of the Handyman's armpit. Well, fine. Let him stay there. He had a severe concussion and at least one broken rib, and his wrist hurt, and his head hurt, and there was a shard of glass embedded in his left hip, and the jackboots couldn't get to him, so he may as well just stay here until he and the monster both rotted. That was just fine with him. Just fi—

"Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker said something unutterably eloquent that might have been, " _Mmgnfh_?"

"Are you all right?"

" _Mnnnghf_. 'M'fine."

Slightly reproachfully: "That's what you said the last few times. Hold on."

There was a shuffling sound, and then a crack of light; the Handyman's arm was dragged laboriously to the side to reveal Elizabeth, standing over him with her hands on her hips and one decidedly sardonic eyebrow cocked skywards. "You look terrible."

Booker attempted a smile. "Feel terr'bl'."

Elizabeth's attempt at a smile was no more sincere, but it was markedly more successful. "I don't much care for you, Mr. DeWitt," she said dryly, "but I must admit, you know your way around a brawl."

"Th'nks." Booker shoved himself up onto his hands, and then into a crouch; he stayed there for a moment, and then he swayed and slumped over sideways and lay there, blinking confusedly up at the girl and wondering why she was upside-down all of a sudden. She just shook her head at him, turned, and splashed away through the mud. He watched her go, still rather puzzled as to how he'd gotten onto the ground. When she was about ten feet away, she stopped, looked over her shoulder, and then slumped and sighed when she saw he wasn't following. She picked her way back over to him and stood there, arms folded. He stared queasily up at her. There was one of her, and then two, and then one again, and then she bent down and grabbed his wrist and tugged with all her strength.

She wanted him to stand? He could... he could do that. With her dubious assistance, he got unsteadily to his feet and staggered towards her, and she braced herself against him before he could topple over again.

"Come on, Mr. DeWitt," she said. "The police have gone, but I have the feeling they'll be bringing a full army with them when they return. We have to get to Chen Lin's, remember?"

That name did sound vaguely familiar, but some of the mud must have seeped into his mind, because it was so hard to think. Elizabeth frowned at him reproachfully, and then must have seen how unfocused he was, because much of the hostility faded from her features.

"You're injured," she said. "But I can't—" Here she broke off and turned around on the spot, questing for something. Booker took the opportunity to sink back down against the wall of the alley. "I don't see any Tears. Not proper ones, not—" Again she cut herself off. Her fingers clenched gently, and then with more force. Booker watched her with detached curiosity. Somewhere inside him was the knowledge that something was about to happen, but the details wouldn't come. His head was starting to hurt again.

"I can do this," said Elizabeth, more to herself than to him. "I know I can."

She turned back towards him and bent down onto one knee, squinting at the air between them with clenched jaw and furrowed brow. Slowly, jerkily, she raised her hands and began twisting them apart; the motion was laborious, stuttering, less sure than he'd ever seen her—but even so, the air began to throb and ripple. Booker's vision filled with gray, and the inside of his head bubbled and fizzed; there was the sudden sensation of falling, and a great roaring in his ears, and then the world snapped back into focus. The air was cold on his face, his entire right side was a column of white-hot pain, and his head no longer felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton batting. He gasped and jerked backwards instinctively, only to bite back a strangled curse as his broken ribs shifted. She'd rid him of his concussion, but it had apparently been beyond her power to mend his other injuries as well.

"Thanks, Eliz—" Booker stopped. Elizabeth was curled into a ball on the dirty bricks before him, one arm wrapped across her torso and the other pressed to her face. When she moved it away, he saw blood smeared across her palm. It dripped from her lips and trickled steadily from her nose, and her eyes were sunken in their sockets and ringed with purple, puffy shadows.

"Holy shit, are you okay?"Booker moved painfully until he was beside her, and after a moment's hesitation dared to place a hand on her shoulder. She made no effort to shrug it off, which he figured was a very bad sign. "Hey. C'mon, we gotta get out of here before more coppers show up. I'm sorry, but we ain't safe, and I can't carry you, not in the state I'm in. Can you move?"

"Uh... uh-huh." Even the faint noise of assent sounded slurred. Elizabeth pushed herself to her knees and promptly started to keel over again. Her nosebleed was showing no signs of abating, and the hand she kept pressed to her face was stained a sticky, ugly red. Booker caught her and hissed as she hit his side, but managed to keep them both upright and begin guiding her along the alley. They made it to the shadow of what looked to have once been a sagging tenement before collapsing again. Elizabeth had stopped bleeding, but she was pale and shivering, her eyes glazed over and fixed on nothing. This was worse even than the first time she'd opened a Tear, before she'd gotten used to doing so; Booker didn't know if he'd be able to help her, but damned if he wasn't going to try.

He flung his tattered rucksack down between them and began laboriously shuffling through the contents. They were mostly dirt and shredded paper at this point, but some assorted ammunition had survived, along with a few half-empty bottles of salts, a package wrapped in brown paper that he vaguely remembered stowing at the Soldiers' Field resort, and the misshapen medicinal kit that the girl had salvaged from the machine at Battleship Bay. He pulled this out, flipped it open and surveyed his options, light-headed with pain and fatigue: gauze, antiseptic, sutures and a needle, and a black-red bottle with a burette cap. He held this last in his palm a moment, weighing whether dulling the pain would be worth it; but he'd been down that road before, and Elizabeth needed him. He threw the bottle of laudanum away, and it shattered on the dirty cobbles.

It took the better part of half an hour for him to fumble a makeshift splint for himself, and it was flimsy at best, but it would have to suffice. He'd broken ribs before; as long as his bones were still in his skin, there wasn't much to do but get around the pain and wait for them to heal. Even if the girl had held him in a kindly regard at the moment, she clearly wasn't in any shape to be using her talents for anything.

"Hey, Elizabeth." He touched her shoulder gently. This time she started and shrugged away from his touch. Booker was too relieved by this to be properly offended, and it seemed to him that the motion had been rather half-hearted anyway. "How're you doing?"

"I'm all right." Her voice was still hoarse and muted, her skin flecked with blood, but her eyes were a bit brighter and she was sitting up straight against the building wall. "Give me another moment or two, Mr. DeWitt, and I think I will be able to move on."

"What happened back there? You opened Tears before without near so much trouble." He meant to sound casual, but too much concern leaked through, and Elizabeth looked at him askance.

"I..." She glanced back down at her hands—one bloodstained, one clean. "I didn't... _open_ that Tear. There wasn't one nearby for me to use. This one, I think... I think I created it."

He was about to say 'What's the difference?' when the true meaning of what she'd said sunk in. Every time he thought her powers couldn't get more terrifying, something like this came along and happened. "You _created_ it? Jesus."

Elizabeth glanced away, her face crumpling inwards. The memory rose unbidden of her sobbing in the Tower, desperate to know what she was and why she'd been locked away. Was he the first to treat her like a person? Probably3. He owed it to her not to let her frighten him, then, even if he didn't understand her. He forced his voice back into a more even tone and said, "Did, uh. Did we know this could happen?"

She sniffed and looked back up at him, her despondence slowly melting into something approaching gratitude. "I used to be able to, when I was much younger," she said. "But the Siphon—" As with all the times that the monstrous machine was brought up, Elizabeth cut herself short. "—I suppose being free of it for a while has returned some of my abilities to me."

"Now there's a sentence you don't hear every day."

A laugh. Only a soft huff of air, an upward curve of her mouth, but a genuine one. It was the best Booker had gotten since he'd betrayed her, and all of a sudden his injuries and aches didn't sting quite so sorely. The feeling didn't last long; the sky was darkening above them, and every second they delayed was another second for Fitzroy to get comfortable aboard the _First Lady_.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes." Elizabeth levered herself upright, staggered, and caught herself against Booker's arm. He made a valiant effort to ignore her fingers digging into his shoulder and failed miserably4. "Yes, I believe so."

"This power of yours comes with a whole peck'a strings attached."

"I'd noticed." Elizabeth scrubbed at her face with the heel of one hand, but the blood and grime were ingrained into her skin. "None of this makes any sense."

In his opinion, things had stopped making sense around the time Samuels had introduced him to the Twins. He'd just begun to accept it as a given at this point. Elizabeth caught his wry expression and snorted as if in agreement. She released his arm, took a few unsteady steps, and then straightened up and turned to look at him. "Let's find Chen Lin and end this before the soldiers return."

"Sounds good to me."

They left the sagging tenement, pausing for Booker to pry a machine gun from the hands of a dead soldier—his shotgun still lost somewhere under the Handyman's massive corpse—and flitted down the muddy streets, glancing over their shoulders at every noise and pausing at every corner. Nobody hindered their progress; Finkton had been entirely abandoned. Comstock's lackeys would be back, of course, but for the moment there was a silence approaching peace. A cold breeze drifted between the buildings, stirring the trash in the gutters and making the gate of a shabby-looking theater creak angrily on its crooked hinges. Booker glanced up at the venue's façade as they passed: it was probably meant to say 'The Good Time Club', but one enameled 'O' had fallen free so that it now read 'The Go d Time Club'.

"Now there's a statement never been less true."

Elizabeth made a noise of agreement and kicked at a broken bottle. It skittered away down the street and clunked against the steps to another storefront porch. The two of them watched its trajectory dumbly, and then Elizabeth happened to glance upwards. She grabbed Booker's wrist and pointed with renewed energy.

"Look, Mr. DeWitt! There it is! 'Chen Lin, Gunsmith'."

He exhaled heavily with weary relief. "At last. Let's hope they're open."

"Quite frankly, Mr. DeWitt, even I wouldn't object to breaking in at this point."

There proved to be no need for that; the door was unlocked, and the two stepped in. Immediately they were assailed by the sounds of machinery emanating from the upstairs level, so they proceeded in that direction, up a flight of rickety stairs. On the landing was an altar strewn with orchids and candles, devoted to a cross-legged figurine of gold that rested at its center. Elizabeth bent to study the statuette with interest.

"I've read about this," she said. "It's Gautama Buddha."

"Who?"

"The founder of Buddhism. According to legend he spent forty-nine days under a Bodhi tree until he achieved enlightenment."

Booker _humph_ ed. "Something tells me Comstock doesn't cater to idols getting worshipped that ain't him." He turned from the little shrine and continued up to the second story. A series of massive coal-powered machines, the functions of which completely eluded him, dominated the center of the room. The cacophony they made as they ran endlessly was deafening, but they appeared to be unattended. Everything else in the workshop had been turned over, emptied out, or kicked across the floor.

Elizabeth blinked in the dim light, her hands over her ears. Booker ushered her behind him as he drew the Colt, and together they ranged through the empty workshop.

"Hello? Mr. Lin? Chen Lin?" No answer. The place had clearly been ransacked, but maybe the proprietor had had the good sense to hide. He raised his voice, just in case. "Anyone home?"

There was still no response. Elizabeth removed her hands from her ears long enough to ask, "What happened here?"

"Someone worked this place over good," Booker told her. He neglected to mention that he'd been on the other end of this scenario more times than he could count. "Local constabulary, no doubt." He completed his round of the perimeter and beckoned for Elizabeth to follow. She complied, but froze suddenly, her head tilted downwards towards something he couldn't identify.

"Did you hear that? There's someone downstairs."

Booker had no idea how she'd managed to hear that over the clamor of the machines, but when he strained he could make out the muffled sound of a human voice. Female, he thought; it sounded like someone was crying. It wasn't likely to be a threat, then, but he moved in front of Elizabeth again anyways. Together they crept down the stairs, and paused at the landing: there was indeed a woman sobbing in front of the shrine to Gautama Buddha, her head bowed over her clasped hands. Booker stood there awkwardly for a few moments, but she did not appear to notice him.

"Uh, excuse me...?"

The woman started and jerked her head around, her eyes widening when they landed upon the two of them. They must have cut quite an alarming figure, bruised and bloodstained and filthy as they were, but the woman didn't run or scream. She just stood there, tears dripping down her cheeks, and stared. Booker tried again, somewhat nonplussed. "I-I'm sorry to bother you, Miss, but we're looking for Mr. Lin?"

The woman sniffed and blinked at him but didn't answer.

"Mr. Lin?" Booker prompted. "Mr. Chen Lin?"

"My husband not here," the woman said finally, with another great sniff. She passed a calloused hand over her eyes. "He... gone."

"Gone?" Elizabeth moved around Booker to place a gentle hand on Mrs. Lin's shoulder and was rewarded with a weak and watery smile.

"They... taked him. Flying squad. I pray Gautama Buddha gives him back. Pray he gives husband back to Mei Lin."

Elizabeth's hand traced comforting circles across Mrs. Lin's shoulders. Where had she learned such compassion? Booker wondered. How had she become so kind, locked away in her gilded prison?

"Where did the flying squad take your husband?" she said. Mrs. Lin gave another sob and buried her face in her hands again. "Please, Mrs. Lin. If you tell us where they took him, I promise we'll bring him back."

Booker started to scold her for making promises they didn't know if they could keep, but she'd already fixed him with an icy glare. He shut his mouth and stayed quiet.

"The club," Mrs. Lin said haltingly. "Everyone taked to Good Time Club."

"The theater we passed?" said Booker. "Why the hell would they take him there?"

Mrs. Lin gave another muffled sob. "Why Vox Populi doesn't helps Chen Lin? Why Daisy Fitzroy doesn't helps Chen Lin?"

He and Elizabeth exchanged another glance. "Maybe—maybe she has," the girl said. "She sent us to find him. We'll help him, Mrs. Lin. We'll bring your husband back."

Mrs. Lin nodded into her hands. After a moment, she raised her head, wiping her eyes again. "You are kind girl," she said. "Daisy sends me kind girl."

Elizabeth smiled sadly. "Will you be all right?" Another nod. She released the older woman and turned to Booker, and they headed down the stairs. As soon as they were out of earshot, she leaned in and whispered, "Who are the flying squad?"

"Cops. The ones with those little red boats, if I had to wager. Probably the ones who got their boots on Lin's throat, askin' him how well he knows Daisy Fitzroy."

"Then I suppose we had better hurry."

"Yeah," Booker said darkly, "I think we had."

Finkton was still unsettlingly empty when they exited the gunsmith's. He had no doubt that there was a reason for this—having failed to subdue him with the Handyman, perhaps Comstock would devise something even more deadly—and so it was with raised hackles and a readied gun that he led the way back to the Good Time Club. They went the whole way unhindered, which was so suspicious in and of itself that seeing that the marquee over the door now read ' _Booker DeWitt Auditions Today!_ ' came as something of a relief.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"At this point?" Elizabeth put her hands on her hips and leaned backwards slightly to appraise the sign. "Just about anything."

"Well, here's hoping I don't have to sing," Booker said. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be."

He pushed the doors open. The foyer was small, but surprisingly clean in contrast to the outside surroundings: the floor was soft green carpet, the walls polished oak, and a pair of twin brass-edged stairways led to an upper level.

The doors thumped shut behind them, and as soon as they did so a familiar voice rang out from above: "Ah! DeWitt, my boy!"

It was Fink, of course. The forced joviality issuing from the speakers couldn't have belonged to anyone else. "You know," Fink continued casually, "the best kind of interview is one where the applicant doesn't know he's being evaluated! I've watched you since the other day at the lottery. You're a brute! And in times like this—I could use a brute!" His laughter lasted a little too long before cutting off with a squeal.

"What do you want, Fink?" Booker shouted at the speakers. It was more a rhetorical act of frustration than a proper question, but either the man was nearby or he had some sort of listening device installed, because he answered immediately.

"Why, labor unrest is coming, DeWitt!" Fink laughed again. "Now, Fitzroy has got the jungle all riled up. A man like me could have use of an old Pinkerton like you."

"Sorry, pal, but I'm already hired out. No sale."

Fink's voice took on a singsong, chiding tone, as if he was speaking to a young child. "Now, now! All I ask is that you finish what you started, DeWitt. Wouldn't want to disappoint the other applicants!" The microphone clicked off. Booker's mouth pressed into a thin line as he stared at the ceiling. Other applicants? What, exactly, did he think that Booker had started?

"I really don't like him," Elizabeth decided.

He snorted derisively. "Yeah, welcome to the club. C'mon."

The staircase they followed let out onto a large balcony overlooking the theater's main floor. The space featured about a dozen booths and perhaps twice as many large round tables, all arranged in a rough semicircle around a raised stage with a microphone at one end. The balcony on which Booker and Elizabeth stood had no seating, but was instead dominated by a long bar topped with a green silk runner and stocked both with colorful liquors and, most interestingly, a small selection of vigors. The entire theater was paneled in glossy wood and smooth green leather, and the stage was lit by actual electricity. It would have been a very pleasant venue, if not for the proprietor; certainly its appearance was far loftier than the surrounding shanties should have warranted. Why on Earth would a club that looked like it belonged in Columbia's verdant upper districts be down here in the slums, where nobody around could possibly afford to attend? Booker took a step forwards, in the direction of another flight of stairs that led down to the audience floor, but stopped when Fink's voice sounded from the speakers again.

"Our first candidate is a veteran of Peking. Now, what's that they say about old soldiers?" Fink's frequent and unanimously insincere bouts of laughter were quickly becoming both unnerving and highly irritating. "Frankly, my money's on you. He's something of an old hand at handling explosives; only man I know who hasn't—heh, heh—lost a limb working with them!" Fink paused. "...Yet."

The emerald-velvet house curtains behind the stage were rolled up to reveal a bulbous, clanking metal suit that spat steam and sparks in equal measure.

"Ah, shit." Booker grabbed Elizabeth by the wrist and pulled her down behind the bar. She tugged away from him to twist around and risk a glance over the counter, but there was no real venom in it; she was clearly more preoccupied by the metal monstrosity rattling around below.

"What is that thing?"

"Loud'n angry, mostly. They sent one of 'em after me the day I— _gah_!" He wrenched himself to the side as the fireman lobbed a clump of burning coals neatly over both balcony and bar. Embers scattered across the carpet, which immediately began to smoke and shrivel. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose at the stink of burning wool. Behind them, the fireman was laboriously mounting the stairs. Booker hurled a handful of birds at it, but they did little more than confuse it momentarily before the heat of its suit set them afire. Another wave of flames broke against the bar, filling the air with smoke and the choking stench of melting varnish. He grabbed the Hotchkiss and rose up to fire at the thing, but the gun's strip was half-empty, and the bullets didn't penetrate the heavy armor. They did stagger it, though; it windmilled clumsily and then lost its balance, tumbling very loudly down the stairs and swearing all the while.

A touch at Booker's side made him jerk in alarm, but it was just Elizabeth, biting her lip witheyebrows furrowed. "That suit's metal, probably iron," she whispered. "If you can get him off the floor somehow, the Shock Jockey vigor could do a lot of damage."

Thoughtfully, Booker flexed his fingers, then pulled himself above bar level again, wincing as his broken ribs shifted slightly. When the fireman appeared, belching steam in preparation for another volley, he twisted his hand, and a small gale's worth of compressed air tossed it off its feet. It flailed and cursed indistinctly, but lightning crackled in Booker's palm and lanced out to meet it. There was an echoing _crack_ as electricity struck metal, and the fireman's frustrated yells became panicked screams and then silence. Its scorched and smoking corpse fell heavily to the balcony, cracking the floorboards.

Fink responded almost immediately, perversely delighted. "Oh-ho-ho, good show, good _show_! Keep it up, and we'll have a winner for sure! Let's see if the next contestant is ready...." The house curtain fell back over the stage again. Booker took the opportunity to down one of the bar's bottles of salts, grimacing at the taste. Elizabeth stared over the counter at the corpse of the fireman.

"What exactly is it that we're competing for again?"

"I dunno about you, but personally I'm hoping for a chance to deck that ridiculous moustache off'a Fink's face," he muttered, shoving the empty bottle back under the bar and rooting through his rucksack for a fresh strip of ammunition. Elizabeth snorted.

"Far be it from me to stop you if it is."

The main drape began to roll upwards once more. Fink had returned, and with him, one of the crow people. "This young go-getter is a former devotee of Lady Comstock! But without the old gal, they don't know quite what to do with themselves. Picked this one up at a _hiring fair_."

The crow screeched and dissolved into birds that swarmed up the stairs in a dark cloud. Booker shot lightning at it, but the flock scattered, cawing angrily. It coalesced back into a man once it reached the balcony and swung out at him with a spiked, steel-plated club. He parried with the skyhook, striking sparks, and shouted in pain as the impact traveled along his arm and down his ribs. The crow gave a bark of triumph, a hoarse and raucous sound better suited to a beak than a human mouth. It bounded backwards and raised its club to deliver the _coup de grâce._ Before it could bring the club down on his head, Booker leapt up and tackled it, catching the sackcloth hood over its face in his flaming fist. The coarse fabric caught light immediately and the crow shrieked, once again exploding into a flock of birds. The vigor fire consumed several of the ravens before sputtering out; when the crow reassembled itself halfway down the hall, it was bleeding from the ragged stump of its right arm.

"Pardon me, Lady! Please!" it screeched, turning around and running for them again. Booker turned the Hotchkiss on it, and its corpse tumbled to a halt by the end of the bar.

"My, my! Quality work!" Fink cried. "Surpassing all expectations here, my boy! Heh, heh—keep it up! Now, your true rival is an expert with the automata. Wants to replace all our security with machines! I'll give the old boy credit, though: it would be fewer mouths to feed!"

_Patriot_ , thought Booker as the house curtain rose for a third time. His hunch was quickly proved correct as an enameled Washington stomped downstage. Behind it bobbed two of the floating Dickinson centrifugal guns. He sighed. He would've liked to have been wrong, just this once.

The Patriot clumped through the theater, making for his and Elizabeth's hiding place. " _Too rare is the man who takes a stand, for faith and greatest fatherland!_ "

"Don't suppose this place has a leaky pipe through one'a them Tears of yours?" Booker asked, remembering the Hall of Heroes.

Elizabeth shook her head. "This seems to be the one establishment in Finkton that Fink was actually willing to spend money on," she said. "I suppose we'll find out why at some point."

"Well, worth a shot. C'mon, we should move." Keeping to their hands and knees to remain out of sight, the two of them scuttled along the bar and around the corner to a position that afforded them a better view of the stairs. Unfortunately, this meant the Patriot could see them too, and it immediately opened fire while Fink shouted encouragements over the loudspeakers. Booker fell back, thinking fast, and snatched at one of the flying Dickinsons. It turned on its compatriot instantly, destroying it in an eruption of hydrogen, before targeting the Patriot automaton.

" _Those who sow discord are no better than The Great Apostate, the cause of the nation's Great Fall!_ " it said, returning fire. Against flesh-and-blood soldiers or the vulnerable balloons of its own kind, the Dickinson was highly effective, but the Patriot made short work of it and it too exploded.

"Booker, its gears, quick!"

Booker almost missed the opportunity the automaton's turned back provided at Elizabeth's use of his given name, but he managed to collect himself in time to open fire on the gearbox set between its enameled shoulders. Tubes snapped and gears sprung free; the Patriot shuddered, jerked, and fell to its knees, uttering one last defeated couplet before coming apart at the seams.

"Thanks," Booker said breathlessly.

Elizabeth shoved her hair out of her face, looking more pleased with herself than he'd seen in a long time. "No problem."

The two of them stood and looked towards the empty stage, anticipating whatever Fink would throw at them next. Instead of some new enemy, though, confetti began to rain down from the flies.

"Congratulations, DeWitt!" Fink's voice crowed through the speakers. "You know, when your name was first passed to me I wasn't quite sure you were the man for the job, heh heh. But now, I can say with certainty that I was quite wrong!"

Booker sighed and paused at the foot of the stairs. "I already told you, I'm not interested!"

"Now, now, I know all about your little job for Fitzroy," Fink said, "but I think you'll find your business with her has come to an end, heh heh. Do you know how many people would kill to be head of Fink Security? You're a tough nut to crack, Mr. DeWitt, a tough nut! But I promise you this: I will get what I want." The speakers clicked off once more. Booker sighed. Fink's sudden interest in him couldn't be a coincidence; no doubt this was part of some plan by the Prophet. Did they think bringing him into the fold would forget what he owed the girl? Or did they just want to lure him in so they could kill him? Maybe they just wanted him confused and pissed off, in which case they'd succeeded. Well, he'd find out one way or another. For now, the task at hand was what mattered. He shook his head and mounted the stage, Elizabeth at his heels. They passed under the curtains, through the wings, and into a quiet dressing room. Mirrored vanities lined one wall, scattered with paints and powders; a half-dozen trunks overflowed with colorful silks and strings of cheap pearls. On the other side of the room was a door, and Booker had his hand on the knob before he realized that Elizabeth had collapsed onto a plush stool beside one of the vanities. He crossed back over to her, concerned.

"Hey, you okay?"

She looked up at him, her hands limp in her lap. "Booker, I'm sorry for what I said earlier, at the docks. Calling you a thug."

"Elizabeth—"

"No, _listen_ ," she insisted. "We're in this mess because of me. If I hadn't run off, we'd already be in Paris now, wouldn't we?"

"Maybe," he said. "But you only ran off 'cause I lied to you, remember? None'a this is your fault."

Elizabeth shrugged, hunching her shoulders up and clenching her hands between her knees. "I'm not absolving you of your role in this, don't get me wrong," she said, not without a trace of humor. "If you had told me from the outset what you did in the shop, that you'd been paid to bring me to New York but that you'd take me to Paris afterwards, I probably would have gone along with you. But then when you did try to tell me, I didn't listen. I put us both in even more danger because I was foolish. I was angry, and I—"

"Elizabeth," Booker said again, more forcefully. He pulled another stool from beneath the neighboring vanity and sat down beside her. "You acted like a scared, angry kid who'd just found out that the one person she thought she could trust hadn't been straight with her. You acted exactly how you were supposed to. I'm the one at fault here, and I'm sorry."

To his amazement, her eyes filled with tears. "You're really not angry with me?"

"Why the hell would _I_ be angry with _you_? I'm the one that screwed this up, and I'm gonna do my goddamned best to make it up to you."

Elizabeth looked back down at her hands, and it occurred to Booker suddenly that her behavior was very similar to some of the kidnapping victims he'd been hired to sniff out earlier in his career. Most of them were grateful to be rescued, but a couple had been convinced that everything that happened was due to some failing on their part.

"I just—whenever I did something wrong in my tower, I was always punished for it," she said. "They'd put me in the Siphon and make me beg for their forgiveness before I was let out."

"Hey, c'mon, let's not dig up old wounds," Booker said, reaching out to touch her shoulder gently before she could travel deeper into her past. She flinched, but did not pull away. Her eyes were fixed on her hands, and she continued speaking as if unaware of his presence.

"When I was nine, I almost escaped. I climbed up my bookshelves and squeezed through the gap onto the platform you fell from when you rescued me. Songbird caught me and they—they—" she gave a strangled sob— "they left me there for—for two days. I screamed the whole time, promising I'd be good, that I'd never try to escape again, but nobody answered. W-when they let me out, I couldn't stand, and a nurse had to—had to c-carry me back to my bed. I couldn't walk or eat for a week. That was the last time I ever tried to escape."

Booker had to will his frozen limbs back into action. "Jesus, Elizabeth, I'm—ah, shit. You know how bad I am at this comforting business, an' I doubt there's much I could say anyhow. Just—if you need—I mean, if there's anything I can..." He trailed off, unsure how to proceed. There wasn't really a lot he could do about something that had happened so long ago, and just saying 'I'm sorry' seemed cheap and insufficient.

Elizabeth sniffed and blinked up at him, scrubbing away her tears with one hand. "Just get me out of this city, Mr. DeWitt. That'll be enough."

He was mildly disappointed to go back to being 'Mr. DeWitt' again, but when he offered her a hand she took it and allowed him to help her back to her feet. She wiped her eyes on her grubby neckcloth, sniffed once, and then stood up straight, balling her hands into determined fists. "Let's go."

The dressing-room door led to a narrow, switchbacking staircase that let out into a cold, damp stone-walled basement entirely incongruous to the beautiful theater above. Stacks of barrels bisected the corridor, and at the hall's terminus stood two heavily-armed Columbian guards.

"Guess we know why this place looks so swank upstairs," Booker muttered. A couple of the New York gangs he'd crossed paths with had held fronts like this: high-class clubs, theaters, or restaurants that served as covers for subterranean interrogation rooms or armories. They were usually large, and always well-guarded. He gestured for Elizabeth to hunker down beside him behind the cover of the nearest row of barrels. The guards, a man and a woman, were evidently deep in some sort of argument; the man's voice was sly and wheedling, while the woman was clearly unimpressed.

"Come on, Frannie, you're a modern woman! It's nineteen-twelve!"

"It'll be two _thousand_ and twelve before I'm interested in someone like you," she retorted.

"Aw, don't be like that—" The male guard stopped short as Booker grabbed at him with Possession, then turned on Frannie and opened fire. The vigor lasted significantly shorter on a human; the man came to his senses within a couple of seconds, and, seeing the body of his coworker, turned his machine gun on himself. The whole thing was over in less than a minute. Elizabeth removed her hands from her ears, shuddered once, and then stood and dusted herself off.

"I'm not sure I like that vigor," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Would you rather I not use it on people? I can, uh, I can find another way—"

"No, there's no point. You're going to kill them anyways, after all."

"God, I—I'm sorry about all this, Elizabeth."

"Sorry for what? Rescuing me from a life of torture and isolation? Nothing you have said or done has been worse than what they did to me in my tower," she said. Booker thought about her threatening to kill him less than two hours previously, and wisely kept his mouth shut. She turned and clicked off down the hall, peering anxiously around corners, and after a moment he followed.

The first room they came to was the theater's furnace, a hulking thing of blackened iron that spat searing heat from its open mouth. Feeding the boiler's flames, and stacked in piles all around it, were hundreds of posters. There were several different designs, but all bore the same message: " _Daisy Fitzroy Hears Your Voice! Join the Vox Populi!_ " By far the most common image was the likeness of the revolutionary herself, one hand clutching the barrel of a rifle and the other extended towards the viewer in a gesture of aid.

"Looks like the Vox've been getting more active lately," Booker observed, sidestepping the teetering piles of propaganda. "Guess that's why this so-called Flying Squad found it so pressing to snatch our gunsmith all of a sudden."

"I can't imagine they've been gentle with him," Elizabeth said, replacing the poster she'd been studying into its pile. "We should hurry."

They left the furnace and headed into the second chamber, which appeared to be evidence storage. File cabinets lined the walls, stuffed to bursting with papers, and a reel-camera ticked along in the center of the room, projecting interrogation footage onto the right-hand wall. A gaunt Chinese man slumped in a metal chair, his hands shackled behind his back, his cheeks swollen and darkened with bruises. One eye was crusted shut with blood, and his hair hung lank and tangled before his face. Even with all his injuries, Booker recognized the face from its likeness on the wanted poster. Chen Lin.

The interrogator's voice was being played from a voxophone connected to the projector. "Tell us what you know about Fitzroy, you goddamn gook! We know you can hear us. You wanna say something? Or you want us to bring in Mrs. Lin for company?"

Lin did not respond. His head drooped even lower, and his good eye fluttered shut. It was quickly apparent that he'd lost consciousness.

"Ah, throw a bucket of ice water on him," a second, more weary voice said. "We got three more to bring in tonight."

The projection froze, flickered, and began to replay from the beginning; the voxophone made a whirring sound as its disc changed directions and then started over as well. Elizabeth inhaled sharply and clapped her hands over her mouth.

"Booker, did you hear them? If they don't get answers out of Mr. Lin, they'll go after Mei!"

"Sounds about right," he muttered. "Let's get moving. Hopefully we'll be able to keep Fink'n his cronies off their backs long enough for him to get Fitzroy's guns to her." He crossed to the row of filing cabinets and counted along them until he came to the one labeled 'L'. He pulled it open and rifled through it until he found a file marked with Chen Lin's name, withdrew this, and propped it open against the drawer.

" _Chen Lin. Wanted for Known Connection to Outlaw Daisy Fitzroy,_ " the sheet inside read. Below that was a space for the interrogator to list his known kin—Mei Lin was the only entry—and under that, in a stroke of luck, were the words " _Cell Number Nine_." Booker tapped the ink with a forefinger.

"All right. Now we just gotta get him out of here."

They left the archive and headed down another flight of stairs, this time built out of worn gray stone. The door at the bottom was locked; Booker kept watch while Elizabeth knelt to pick it.

"I used to work for folks like Fink," he said into the silence. He shifted the Hotchkiss on his shoulder. The dungeon-like atmosphere of the Good Time Club's basement was a constant pressure on his back.

Elizabeth glanced briefly up from her work. "Really?"

"I was with the Pinkertons. They'd call us in when the workers got restless."

"To do what?"

He fidgeted again. Their renewed trust still felt tender and tenuous, and the last thing he wanted was to break it again before it had fully formed. "Demonstrate the folly of men striking. Throwin' down tools."

"You hurt people." It wasn't a question.

"I'll tell you this much," Booker said. "Sometimes there is precious need for folks like Fitzroy."

"Why?"

"'Cause of folks like me."

Elizabeth didn't answer. She finished picking the lock in silence, then stood and shoved the door open. As soon as she did, they were assaulted by a foul, acrid stench that billowed up from the dozens of cells that lined the ensuing hallway.

" _Eurgh_! What's that _smell_?"

"Ain't no privies down here," Booker said grimly.

Elizabeth glanced over into one of the cells as they passed. The floor was scattered with a thin layer of hay; the occupant, a scrawny Irishman with a scar across his nose, sat dumbly in the filth, deaf to the world around him.

"They treat them like animals. What could people have done to deserve being locked up in a place like this?"

"Comstock don't need much of a reason."

"No," she agreed after a moment of silence. "No, he doesn't."

They encountered no resistance as they continued through the prison block; evidently the ill-fated Frannie and her hapless suitor had been the only guards. That seemed like a glaring oversight on the side of the Prophet, but this whole thing had "trap" written all over it anyways. Booker kept one hand on the Hotchkiss and counted off the cell numbers in his head. Four, five, six—

"Booker." Elizabeth's voice was strangled. He whipped his head up and looked over to where she was pointing. Across the hall, the door to cell number seven stood open. The only contents were a long table and a mismatched collection of chairs, but the whole room flickered and fuzzed in the presence of the Tear, the length of his forearm, that hovered above the center of the table. Every few seconds it would open wide enough to see through, and on the other side, the room had a single occupant.

In the place of the table was a metal chair with restraints at its wrists and ankles. The man shackled there was barely recognizable; his face was a black mass of bruises, smeared with dried pus; his nose was crushed flat, broken beyond repair; his hands were swollen to twice their size, fingers broken at crooked angles and several fingernails ripped out of their beds; blood seeped through his clothes and stained his yellow-white beard an ugly, sticky maroon. Only the eyepatch gave away his identity.

"Slate," he whispered, horrified. Beside him, Elizabeth lurched away and doubled over, retching violently. Once she was done shaking, she stood up, wiping her mouth and drawing in a deep, shuddering breath.

"This—this is what you saved him from," she managed to croak out. Her face was a waxy white. "You were right. Sparing him would've been no mercy."

Booker turned away from the Tear. When he spoke, his voice sounded bitter even to his own ears. "It's a damn shame it had to turn out this way. Slate was a good man."

Evidently, Elizabeth was already recovered enough to be sardonical. She raised her eyebrows and put her hands on her hips. "He called me 'Comstock's pet'."

"Well, I didn't say he was a great man," Booker said, somewhat more lightly, and earned a tired laugh for his efforts.

"Down here. Number nine," she said, moving to the next door. Unlike the others, it was not a simple grid of bars, but a slab of solid iron with a heavy wooden handle. "This is it, right?"

"Should be."

Elizabeth knelt to inspect the lock. "How strange. The other cells were secured with simple padlocks, but this.... Keep a lookout. This might take a while."

It was a full five minutes' work for Elizabeth to unlock the door to cell number nine, and as soon as she did they found out why. There was no cramped cell beyond; instead, an iron staircase descended into deep blackness. The ammonia stench of illness and human waste intensified, undercut by the unmistakable fetid odor of decay. Booker took the lead, weapon at the ready and fire in his hand, but they were not attacked. He could tell they had reached the bottom only by the sound his boots made; the blackness was absolute. He felt along the damp stone wall until his hand hit something that felt like a switch. He flipped it, and weak light flickered into existence from a solitary bulb suspended from the ceiling. He blinked, eyes smarting, and then, taking stock of his surroundings, growled in frustration.

"Son of a bitch!"

The room they were in was round, damp and moldering. At its center was a chair like the one the image of Slate had been strapped into, and in the chair was Chen Lin. He'd been as badly abused as Slate had, too; his skin was more black and purple than brown and there was dried blood at the corners of his mouth. His head lolled at an impossible angle; his neck was an ugly, mottled yellow. From the bloating of his face and limbs and the rotten stench that clung to his clothes, he'd been dead for at least three or four days.

Elizabeth swayed on her feet and collapsed against the wall, hands over her face. "Fink," she said, her voice barely audible. "This... this is what he meant."

Booker kicked the interrogation chair, making Lin's head sway grotesquely. "God _damn_ it! Guess we need to find someone else to make those weapons."

Elizabeth lowered her hands long enough to give him a look of pure horror. "What? No!"

"Dead is dead, Elizabeth."

"Dead," said another voice, quite smugly, "is dead."

Much to his credit, he thought, Booker didn't start. The Twins' sudden appearances were slowly ceasing to have an effect on him. He simply turned around slowly and leveled the Lutece siblings with an icy stare.

"The hell do you want?"

Madame Lutece held a silver coin up between them. "I see... heads," she said.

"And I," said her brother, "see tails."

"It's all a matter of perspective."

"Why are you following us?" Booker asked, knowing he wouldn't get an answer and yet unable to stop himself. "Who sent you? Comstock? What do you want from—"

"What do you see here, from this angle?" said the brother Lutece, ignoring him entirely.

His sister tilted her head, looking straight at Booker. "Dead," she said. She turned back to her brother. "And that angle?"

"Alive."

"Listen," Booker started to say, but he was interrupted, not by either of the twins, but by Elizabeth.

"Booker, look! Chen Lin!"

He turned back to her and froze. The air around Lin's corpse shuddered and frayed; the body itself faded in and out of view, leaving behind an empty chair. "The body's gone!"

"It was never here," said the brother.

Booker swallowed hard. "It's another Columbia. A—different Columbia."

"The same coin," said Mr. Lutece.

"A different perspective," said his sister.

"Heads."

"Tails."

"Dead."

"Alive."

With each word they spoke, Chen Lin's body flickered in or out of view. Elizabeth clutched at Booker's sleeve.

"We have to go through," she said, "to this... _other_ Columbia, but... how?" This last was directed at the Twins, almost tentatively. The brother smiled at her.

"It's like riding a bicycle," he said.

"One never really forgets," said Madame Lutece.

"One just needs the courage to climb aboard."

She turned back to Booker, eyes wide and hands clutching at her arms. "If we go through this Tear, I don't know if I'll be able to open it from the other side. The world we land in will be our reality, for—well, forever. Are you sure you want to do this?"

How was he supposed to even begin thinking about a question like that? Either they went through or they didn't, and if they didn't, they were stuck. "Let's go," he said.

Elizabeth turned, perhaps to ask Lutece another question, but they had vanished as silently as they'd come. Her shoulders drooped momentarily and she sighed; but then she straightened again, taking a deep, steadying breath. She closed her eyes and reached out, the way Booker had seen her do a hundred times, her hands twisting at the ragged edges of the air—

A roaring filled his ears—

A thousand million images streamed past his eyes, each possibility simultaneously real and illusory, voices screaming in the back of his mind—

He saw Chen Lin, escorted out of the building in chains—red boats in the sky, spitting fire—Madame Lutece stretching a hand out to someone unseen—the New York of his dreams, all blazing lights and shining streets—Elizabeth in a dirty cellar, singing—Fitzroy in scarlet, face bloody and eyes wild, knee-deep in water with a rifle in her hands—

—And then there was light.

 

* * *

  1. I'm sensing a touch of sarcasm there, sister dearest2.
  2. Sarcasm? Me? _Never_.
  3. And what are we, then? Chopped liver? That man does love to give himself credit where it is most certainly not due.
  4. Oh, dear; the poor fellow's got it bad. Are you really certain we oughtn't inform him? It does seem... unclean somehow5.
  5. But he's doing so well, and you and I know better than anyone else what happens when one tampers with another's slated timeline. Besides, _sister_ , who are we to judge6?
  6. A fair enough point, I suppose. And with the side effects of repeated exposure.... Still, this is a development I'm not sure I approve of7.
  7. On that, my dear Rosalind, we can most certainly agree.



 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming, uh,  _ sometime _ , is  ** A Heavy Heart to Carry ** — in which our heroes head to Shantytown, and resolve some of their issues in the least healthy or productive way possible. Or, in which I continue to be atrocious at writing fluff, but you're gonna get a healthy dose of it anyways because I am entirely without shame :B


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